"Then get thee outside the camp, and bring me fresh tidings."
The man obeyed, but ere long he returned, exclaiming: "'Tis all over. The enemy are nowhere in sight and our men are even now returning."
"Then do not tarry longer, but go to thine own tent, for thou needest better care for thy hurts than I can give thee. This flask of wine I give thee, for, by St. Thomas, thou hast need of it. Nay, do not thank me, but away!"
Once more the camp was alive with men, for the threatened attack of the huge army that Philip had gathered together for the relief of Calais had been ignominiously repelled, and it was known that the fate of the town was sealed. Raymond gathered a fairly true account of the fight from the conversation and joyous exclamations of the elated soldiery, and presently Sir John Hacket, covered with dust and showing signs of the conflict, entered the tent.
"Art feeling better, Raymond?"
"Ay, Sir John. But how goes it with us?"
"Passably well but ever I seem to be a messenger of momentous tidings to thee, whether of good or evil."
"Then there is something amiss?" questioned the young man eagerly, instinctively surmising that the news was unfavourable.
"Yea, Raymond. My speech was ever blunt, and methinks the sooner I unburden myself of a message of ill-tidings the easier 'tis for both of us. Briefly, Sir Maurice hath fallen like the true and gallant knight he was, and thou art the last of the Revyngtons of Churston."
"Alack-a-me that it should be so! For though I knew but little of him, I esteemed him a gallant, gentle, and honourable knight even before I wot he was my kinsman. And Sir Reginald Scarsdale—what of him?"