"But I thought that the two countries were at peace," said the knight, with a coldness of manner sufficiently marked, as he thought, to prevent any further communication of the kind.
Wilsten, however, was not to be stopped, and replied, "Ay, a sort of peace; a peace that is no peace on the frontiers. Don't let that frighten you: we can prove that they were the first aggressors. Why, did not they, less than ten days ago, attack the garrison of St. Omers, and kill three men in trying to force the gate? Have they not ravaged half Hainault? But, however, as I said, be not startled at that. Shoenvelt saw the emperor about two months ago, who gave him to understand that we could not do him a better service than either to take Francis alive or give him a stroke with a lance. And fear not that our plans are well laid: we have already two hundred men scattered over the frontier; every forest, every village, has its ten or twelve, ready to join at a moment's notice, when we sound to the standard: two hundred more follow to-night, and Shoenvelt and I to-morrow, in small parties, so as not to be suspected. Already we have taken a rich burgher of Beauvais, with velvets and cloths of gold worth a hundred thousand florins. But that is nothing: the king is our great object, and him we shall have, unless some cursed accident prevents it; for we do not hunt him by report only: we have our gaze-hound upon him, who never loses sight. What think you of that, sir knight? Count William of Firstenberg, Shoenvelt's cousin, who is constantly with Francis, ay, and well-beloved of him, is our sworn companion, and gives us notice of all his doings. What think you of that, sir knight--ha?"
"I think him a most infernal villain!" cried Sir Osborne, his indignation breaking forth in spite of his better judgment. "By heaven! before I would colleague with such a traitor, I'd have my hand struck off."
"Ha!" cried Shoenvelt, who had marked the knight's coldness all along, and now burst into fury. "A traitor! Sir knight, you lie! Ho! shut the gates there! By heaven! he will betray us, Wilsten! Call Marquard's guard; down with him to a dungeon!" and laying his hand upon his sword, he prepared to stop the knight, who now strode rapidly towards the gate. "Nay, nay," cried Wilsten, holding his companion's arm. "Remember, Shoenvelt, 'tis your own hold. He must not be hurt here; nay, by my faith he shall not. We will find a more fitting place: hold, I say!"
While Shoenvelt, still furious, strove to free himself from Wilsten, Sir Osborne passed the gate of the garden, and entered the space of the outer ballium, where Longpole had pertinaciously remained with the two horses, as close to the barbican, the gate of which had been left open when they entered, as possible, seeming to have had a sort of presentiment that it might be necessary to secure possession of the bridge.
The moment the knight appeared without any conductors, the shrewd custrel conceived at once that something had gone wrong, sprang upon his own horse, gave a glance round the court to see that his retreat could not be cut off, and perceiving that almost all the soldiers were near the inner wall, he led forward his lord's charger to meet him.
Sir Osborne had his foot in the stirrup when Shoenvelt, now broken away from Wilsten, rushed forth from the garden, vociferating to his men to shut the gate and to raise the drawbridge; but in a moment the knight was in the saddle; and spurring on, with one buffet of his hand in passing, he felled a soldier who had started forward to drop the portcullis, and darted over the bridge.
"On to the other gate, Longpole!" cried he. "Quick! Make sure of it;" and turning his own horse, he faced Shoenvelt, who now seeing him gone beyond his power, stood foaming under the arch. "Count of Shoenvelt!" cried he, drawing off his glove, "thou art a liar, a traitor, and a villain, which, when you will, I will prove upon your body. There lies my gage!" and casting down his gauntlet, he galloped after Longpole, who stood with his sword drawn in a small outer gate, which had been thrown forward even beyond the barbican.
"Up! archers, up!" cried Shoenvelt, storming with passion; "up, lazy villains! A hundred crowns to him who sends me an arrow through his heart. Draw! draw, slaves! Draw, I say!"
In a moment an arrow stuck in Sir Osborne's surcoat, and another lighted on his casquet; but, luckily, as we have seen, the more easily to carry his harness or armour, he rode completely armed, and the missiles from the castle fell in vain.