The first sound of the trumpet fell upon his ear as he sat watching the bed of the wounded Lord of Neufchatel, into whose sick chamber he had obtruded himself with an officious zeal, which might have been resented by the noble's attendants, had he not, by quiet and soothing attentions, rendered himself useful, and his presence pleasing to the invalid himself, while a long attendance on a sick and fretful old man, had cooled and wearied those who were at first most active in his service. A restless and feverish night had passed away; and, as morning came, the ancient Seneschal of Burgundy showed some inclination to fall asleep; but the first braying of the trumpets roused him; and he eagerly demanded what those sounds meant. The druggist explained the cause at once; and the enfeebled warrior shook his head with a melancholy air, as he heard the call to horse sounded again, without being able to raise a limb from his couch.
"'Twas not so when first you knew me, Master Ganay?" he said; and then--while one sound succeeded another, and squadron after squadron marched forth through the streets--he continued to murmur a number of low and somewhat incoherent sentences, between the delirium of feverish irritation and the drowsiness of exhaustion. At length, as a faint bluish light began to gleam into the chamber from the dawning of the morning, the last horseman passed the gates of the court-yard, and all Ghent resumed its former stillness.
The old man would then have addressed himself to sleep again; but Ganay now recalled his mind to the subject of his brighter days, with an extraordinary degree of pertinacity. "Nay, nay, my noble lord," he said, returning to the topic of their early acquaintance; "when first I saw your lordship, you would little have suffered an army to march, while you lay still in bed."
"Not I, not I, indeed!" replied the Lord of Neufchatel. "But what can one do?"
"Alack, nothing now," answered the druggist; "but think that you never flinched while you could keep the saddle. You were as eager a rider in those days as ever I met--ay! and somewhat hasty withal."
"Ah! my good Ganay, are you there now?" said the old lord. "Have you not forgot that yet? Well, man, I did you wrong; but have I not tried to make atonement? I did you wrong, I do believe from my soul."
"Believe, my lord!" cried Ganay; "are you not sure? Are not the very papers you possess convincing enough of my innocence?"
"Well, well, perhaps they are," replied the old man, somewhat impatiently.
"Perhaps they are!" exclaimed the other. "Nay, surely they are. But let me fetch and read them to your lordship--where can I find them?"
"They are in the Venice cabinet, I think," answered the Lord of Neufchatel; "but never mind them--never mind them! I tell thee I am convinced--what need of more? I would fain sleep now, if the accursed itching of this thrust in my shoulder would let me. Call the boy with his rote, good Ganay; he often puts me to sleep by playing on his instrument--or the man that tells stories: he is better still. I never fail to grow drowsy as soon as he begins, and to snore before he has half done."