"They are such, sir unknown knight," replied De Coucy, "as will be soon heard of far and wide. But the king's ears must be the first to hear my tale. D'Auvergne," he added, turning to the count. "I pray you, let my page bind up that gash upon your temple. If I see rightly by this pale light, the blood is streaming from it still. Let him stanch it for thee, I pray!"
"Not so, not so! good friend," replied, the count, who, while this conversation had been passing amongst the rest, had been leaning silently against an oak, with his eyes bent thoughtfully upon the ground,--"Not so! It does me good. Methinks that every drop which trickles down and drops on the dust at my feet, takes some of the fire out of my brain. I have been mad, I fear me, De Coucy, I am not quite right yet; but I know, I feel, that I have done this good knight some wrong. Pardon me, sir knight," he added, advancing to the king, and extending his hand, "pardon me, as you are a good knight and true."
"I do, from my soul," replied the monarch, grasping the count's offered hand, and casting from his heart at the same moment far greater feelings of enmity than any one present knew but himself:--"I do from my soul. But you stagger! you are faint! Bind up his wound, some one! Stanch the blood; he has lost too much already!"
The monarch spoke in a tone of command that soon called prompt obedience. The Count d'Auvergne's wound was instantly bound up; but, before the bleeding could be stopped, he fainted, and in that state was borne to the cave from which he had first issued to attack the king. Here he was laid on a bed of moss and straw, which seemed to have formed his usual couch; and was after some difficulty recalled to animation.
De Coucy, having so far seen him restored to a state of safety, burthened with the tidings of Arthur's murder, which he was eager to announce as soon as possible to the sovereign and peers of France, took leave of his unhappy friend; and leaving his page and one of his men to guard and tend him, he set out with the king on the road to Paris. Two prisoners who had been taken, as well as one of De Coucy's followers severely wounded, were left in charge of the seneschal of the castle, who also undertook to see the rights of sepulture bestowed on one or two of the soldiers whose lives had been sacrificed in the affray.
CHAPTER VIII.
The particulars of De Coucy's journey to Paris are not worth recording. He paused for two hours at a village near Meulan, with his followers and his royal companion, for the purpose of resting their weary horses; but neither of the knights took any repose themselves, though the fatigues they had undergone might well have called for it.
The conduct of De Coucy somewhat puzzled the king; for it evinced a degree of calm respect towards him, which Philip judged the young knight would hardly have shown had he not recognised him by some of those signs, which, when seized on by a keen and observing eye, render disguises almost always abortive.
At the same time, neither by indiscreet word, or meaning glance, did De Coucy betray that he had any absolute knowledge of the quality of him whose limbs that plain armour covered. He spoke frankly and freely on all subjects, started various topics of conversation himself, and in short, took care to bound his respect to grave courtesy, without any of that formal reverence which might have directed the attention of others to what he had observed himself.
There was one, however, in the train not quite so cautious.