‘Douglas—Douglas, help!’ cried Jean. But each was surrounded by a swarm of the ruffians; and as George Douglas hastily pushed down some with his horse, and struck down one or two with his sword, he was felled by a mighty blow on the head, and the ecorcheurs thronged over him, dragging him off his horse, any resistance on the part of the Scottish archers, their escort, they could not tell; they only heard a tumult of shouts and cries, and found rude hands holding them on their horses and dragging them among the trees. Their screams for help were answered by a gruff voice from a horseman, evidently the leader of the troop. ‘Hold that noise, Lady! No ill is meant to you, but you must come with us. No; screams are useless! There’s none to come to you. Stop them, or I must!’
‘There is none!’ said Madame de Ste. Petronelle’s voice in her own tongue; ‘best cease to cry, and not fash the loons more.’
The sisters heard, and in her natural tone Eleanor said in French, ‘Sir, know you who you are thus treating? The King’s daughter—sisters of the Dauphiness!’
He laughed. ‘Full well,’ he answered, in very German-sounding French.
‘Such usage will bring the vengeance of the King and Dauphin on you.’
He laughed yet more loudly. His face was concealed by his visor, but the ill-fitting armour and great roan horse made Jean recognise the knight whose eyes had dwelt on her so boldly at the tournament, and she added her voice.
‘Your Duke of the Tirol will punish this.’
‘He has enough to do to mind his own business,’ was the answer.
‘Come, fair one, hold your tongue! There’s no help for it, and the less trouble you give us the better it will be for you.’
‘But our squire!’ Jean exclaimed, looking about her. ‘Where is he?’