"To arms!" rang the reply in many voices, both high and deep, like a major chord sounding from the heart.
As she rose, the nobles had risen, too, and only the King kept his seat, his pale face bent, his hands folded upon the hilt of the sword that stood between his knees. The Queen said no more, and, without glancing at her husband, as if she alone were sovereign, she descended the two steps from the throne to the floor of the tent. Three knights, one of Gascony, one of Poitou, and one of her own Guienne, who were her guard of honour, followed her as she passed out, smiling to the great nobles on her right and left. And many showed that they desired to speak with her—first among them the Count of Montferrat.
"Madam," he said, when he had bowed low before her, "I praise God and the Holy Trinity that your Grace is alive to-day. I pray that you will deign to accept the homage and felicitations of Montferrat!"
"Of Bourbon, Madam!" cried a voice beside her.
"Of Savoy, your Grace!" said another.
"Of Coucy, of Courtenay, of Metz—" the voices all rang at once, as the lords pressed round her, for she had not been seen since she had left the field after her fall.
"I thank you," she answered, with a careless smile. "But you should thank also the man who saved my life, if you love me."
"Madam, we have," replied Montferrat. "And if your Grace will but let me have the man, I will do him much honour for your Highness's sake."
"He is no vassal of mine," Eleanor said. "He is a poor English gentleman, cheated of his lands, a friend of young Henry Plantagenet."
"The friend of a boy!" The Count laughed lightly.