“Admit them forthwith,” said the castellan, as much pleased as any other country gentleman of his time at the coming of a guest who could give him all the news of the day, and whose gossip was to that age what a daily paper is to our own.
The guests were heartily welcomed, and, the evening meal being already prepared, it was placed on the board as soon as the visitors were ready, much to the satisfaction of the latter, who had been in the saddle since morning.
When Alain and his brothers made their appearance, they still bore visible marks of the recent fray; but in that bone-breaking age it was quite the correct thing for a young man of rank to wear a face like a beaten prize-fighter; and Sir Simon Harcourt mentally decided that these were “exceeding gentle and good young men.”
“I give thee joy, my noble host,” said he, bowing courteously to the three tall youths as they entered; “thou hast a goodly muster of sons to carry on thy name.”
“Gramercy for thy courtesy, fair sir,” said the old castellan, reddening slightly, “but these lads are no sons of mine; they are but my dead sister’s orphan children. But one son have I, and he may not quit his chamber, being somewhat ill at ease with a hurt he hath gotten.”
How his son had got that hurt, the good knight did not think fit to say.
Sir Yvon listened eagerly to all his visitors’ news, being specially delighted to hear that a new war was expected between France and England. Filling his silver goblet to the brim, he uttered the toast, “May we soon meet again on the battlefield!” as heartily as if he were wishing his guests every kind of prosperity.
The latter echoed the pledge with a heartiness natural to an age when men were feasting together at one moment and fighting together the next; and Harcourt said, with a quick glance at his boy-nephews—
“Here be two lads, fair sir, who will blithely say Amen to that good wish of thine, for they have never seen a stricken field; and, in truth, Alured and Hugo de Claremont are the heads of our house, though they now serve me as pages.”
“The better for them!” cried the old knight, looking approvingly at the two handsome, high-bred faces, and secretly rejoicing at the accident that had kept his own ugly son from being contrasted with them. “There is nought like discipline for young blood, and he who has not learned to obey as a page will never be fit to command as a knight. I drink to you, Master Alured, and to you, Master Hugo; and soon may ye both win your spurs on some well-fought field!”