"Where is thy master, Sir Oliver, Simeon?" asked the Lady Bertha, trying the while to maintain her composure, as a burly, bow-legged man stepped out of the boat and scrambled up the steps of the wharf.
Simeon Cross was the master-shipman of the Grâce à Dieu. For more than two-score years had he earned his bread on the waters, being more used to the heaving planks of a ship than to hard ground.
Awkwardly he shuffled with his feet, scarce daring to raise his eyes to meet the stern, expectant look of the Châtelaine of Warblington.
"Answer me, rascal. Where is Sir Oliver?"
"Lady, I have ever been unshipshape with my tongue; were I to talk much my words would trip like a scowed anchor. Ere long black would be white, and white black, and——"
"Cease thy babbling, Simeon, and answer yea or nay. Is Sir Oliver alive and well?"
"Lady, yea and nay. Yea, since he is still in the flesh, and nay, by reason of——"
"The saints be praised!" ejaculated the fair questioner, reassured by the old seaman's reply. "But stand aside, I pray you, for I perceive that Oswald Steyning draws near. Tell me, Oswald, how comes it that thou hast deserted thy master? Is it meet that a squire should return without his lord?"
"Sweet lady, I had no choice in the matter," replied the squire, a fair-haired youth of about sixteen years of age. "By the express command of Sir Oliver and of the Lord of Malevereux I stand here this day. Sir Oliver is alive and, I wot, in health, but, alas! a prisoner."