"Dare they receive us otherwise?" asked the countess, while the eight bearded knights who bore her canopy exchanged approving smiles under their uplifted visors.
"Sister!"
"Well, sister! These baillies and deacons in their holiday gaberdines and worsted hosen—these websters and makers of bonnets and daggers—these grimy fourbissers, lorimers, and dalmaskers of iron, with their carlins in curchies and plaids, do well and wisely to cringe and vail their bonnets to-day."
"Wherefore?"
"Have we not two thousand horse marshalled under our banner?" said the young earl, who shared to the full the emotions of the haughty girl, his wife.
"True, my lord and cousin; but they might, like dour carles, bite their thumbs, and scowl at us from under their bonnets, for all our bravery," replied Murielle.
"'Tis a beautiful horse that roan of Sir Patrick Gray," said the earl; "and its housings are——"
"Gules and or," interrupted Murielle, for then all well-bred people knew the science of heraldry.
"His own colours, of course, and not the king's," said the countess, with an artful smile; "you laugh lightly, Murielle, because you love that man."
"Is it a sign of love to be merry?" asked Murielle, softly, while her fine eyes dilated with wonder.