"Ho, Squire Lysle!" exclaimed the man-at-arms. "Who was yon fellow whom thou hast carried to our master? Hast 'prisoned a hornet? I' faith, he swaggered past us as if he were King Harry himself."
"'Twas none other than the King," replied Geoffrey.
"What! The King? A fine story to tell at home—if home we ever see—how that Squire Lysle laid hands upon his liege lord."
"Nay, let that pass," replied Geoffrey, "for I have other work in hand. Art willing to bear me company as far as the French camp?"
"Right willingly," replied the grey-headed man-at-arms when the squire had explained the nature of his errand.
"And I, too, will go with thee," exclaimed Oswald.
"And I," added Ratclyffe.
"Nay, four are too many for a secret errand such as this," objected Geoffrey. "Now help me to unhelm, Oswald. My coat of mail must also be left behind."
Swiftly the rusted armour was removed, and, armed only with a poniard, Geoffrey set out on his desperate errand, with Arnold Gripwell, similarly armed, to bear him company.
In a whisper they replied to the cautious challenge of the alert sentinel, then crossing the bog-like ground in front of the lines, they gained the sombre recesses of the wood.