Alas! they did see; they saw their Baron rolling over and over on the ground. They saw their Baron roll; they heard their Baron rave; they turned and fled for their lives.
At this moment the portal swung open, and the Lady Ermengarde appeared. She had seen all from an upper window, and she now hastened to raise her fallen lord, who sat spluttering and cursing on the ground, unable to rise, owing to the weight of his armor. “Oh! blame not the steed!” cried the lovely lady. “Chide not the gallant beast, good my lord! ’twas not the touch, ’twas the tail, he could not brook. Tie the rustic tail of a plebeian cart-horse on Gray Berold? Oh! fie, my lord! it may not be. I will provide a tail for your charger!”
“You!” exclaimed the Baron. “What mean you, lady?”
The Lady Ermengarde replied by drawing from the embroidered pouch which hung from her jewelled girdle a pair of shears. Snip! snap! snip! snap! and before her astonished lord could interfere, the golden tresses, the pride of the whole country-side, were severed from her head. Deftly she tied the shining curls together; lightly she stepped to where Gray Berold stood. She stroked his noble head; she spoke to him; she showed him the tresses, and told him what she had done. Then with her own hands she tied them on to the stump of his tail with her embroidered girdle; and Gray Berold moved not fore-leg nor hind, but stood like a steed of granite till it was done.
The retainers were dissolved in tears; the Baron sobbed aloud as he climbed, with the assistance of seven hostlers, into the saddle; but the heroic lady smiled, and bade them be of good cheer. She could get a black wig, she said; and she had always thought she should look better as a brunette.
And to make a long story short, said the wood-pigeon, she did get a black wig, and looked like a beauty in it. And the Baron went to the tournament, and won all the prizes. And Gray Berold lived to be sixty years old, and wore the golden tail to the end of his days. And that’s all.
CHAPTER IX.
“Oh! what a delightful story, Pigeon Pretty!” cried Toto. “Did you hear any more like it? I wish I had that red book! Did the boy look as nice as his sister? What was his name?”
“His name,” said the pigeon, “was Jim, I think. And he did not—no, Toto, he certainly did not look as nice as his sister. In fact, although I pitied him because he was ill, I thought he looked like a disagreeable sort of boy.”