It was the month of May, and Gaston Phæbus, Count of Foix, was the guest of the Prince and Princess of Wales; and thither also had come Roger, Lord De Ov; and I, having just returned from an expedition to Angoulême, was seated at dinner in the city of Bordeaux, the day being a Wednesday, when Sir Richard de Pontcharden, the Marshal of Guienne, came to me, and said—
"Winram, know you of what things you are openly accused?"
"On my faith I do not, Sir Richard," replied I; "and beshrew me if I can guess to what you allude."
"In truth," said Sir Richard, kindly taking my hand, "I fully credit what you say. Nevertheless, I deem it right to warn you that, since your departure, there has been a plot discovered for delivering some towns up to the French, and that of this plot your name is bruited about as one of the authors."
I was literally struck dumb with amazement; and I gazed on the marshal in silence.
"Why gaze you on me thus?" asked he.
"By my sooth," replied I, suddenly recovering my speech, "I may well indeed be astonished at such a charge, considering that even the existence of such a plot was unknown to me. But who may be my accuser?"
"I know not," answered Sir Richard, significantly; "but this I do know, that the prince partly believes it, and that, were I in your place, I should hasten to the prince's presence, and demand his name forthwith."
"You are right," said I with energy. "Not a moment must be lost in meeting this calumny and this calumniator face to face, and, it may be, hand to hand."