“When didst thou land, Sir Myles?” said the Earl.
“I and my squire landed at Dover upon Tuesday last,” answered the young man.
The Earl of Mackworth stroked his beard softly. “Thou art marvellous changed,” said he. “I would not have thought it possible.”
Myles smiled somewhat grimly. “I have seen such things, my Lord, in France and in Paris,” said he, quietly, “as, mayhap, may make a lad a man before his time.”
“From which I gather,” said the Earl, “that many adventures have befallen thee. Methought thou wouldst find troublesome times in the Dauphin's camp, else I would not have sent thee to France.”
A little space of silence followed, during which the Earl sat musingly, half absently, regarding the tall, erect, powerful young figure standing before him, awaiting his pleasure in motionless, patient, almost dogged silence. The strong, sinewy hands were clasped and rested upon the long heavy sword, around the scabbard of which the belt was loosely wrapped, and the plates of mail caught and reflected in flashing, broken pieces, the bright sunlight from the window behind.
“Sir Myles,” said the Earl, suddenly, breaking the silence at last, “dost thou know why I sent for thee hither?”
“Aye,” said Myles, calmly, “how can I else? Thou wouldst not have called me from Paris but for one thing. Methinks thou hast sent for me to fight the Earl of Alban, and lo! I am here.”
“Thou speakest very boldly,” said the Earl. “I do hope that thy deeds be as bold as thy words.”
“That,” said Myles, “thou must ask other men. Methinks no one may justly call me coward.”