These chivalrous and gallant words threw the assemblage into transports of enthusiasm. The Sire of Nointel bows his head and proceeds:
"These prisoners belong to my lady-love. Let her dispose of them at her sovereign will."
"Seeing that my valiant knight requests me to decide over the fate of these prisoners," answered Gloriande, "I order that they be delivered of their chains ... and that they be set free! The day of my marriage shall be a day of joy for all"; and extending her hand to Conrad who drops on one knee before his bride, she proceeds: "Here is my hand, Sire of Nointel. I can give it to no more valorous a knight."
"Happy day to the wedded couple!" cries the assemblage. "Glory and happiness to Gloriande of Chivry and Conrad of Nointel!"
While the brilliant company was thus manifesting its share in the gladness of the young couple, the Count of Chivry approached the knight of Chaumontel and asked him in a low voice:
"Gerard, what devil of Englishmen are these fellows.... Why, they are dark as moles!"
"Sir Count," gravely answered the knight, "these scamps are of the English tribe of Ratamorphrydich!"
"How do you call that tribe?" again inquired the aged seigneur stupefied at the barbarous name; "I never heard of it before."
"The Ratamorphrydich," explained the knight, "are one of the most ferocious tribes of northern England. They are supposed to descend from a gypsy or Syrian colony that migrated from Moscovy to the shores of Albion upon the back of marine horses."
"Well! Well!" rejoined the aged count enraptured at the geographic knowledge of the knight. "That is a very complete and clear explanation."