"Nay, 'tis my purpose to press on," remarked Geoffrey. "Stay here an thou wilt."
"That cannot be. Where thou goest I will follow," said Gripwell doggedly.
"Then let us gather a bundle of faggots apiece, and set out boldly towards the camp. It is in my mind to see how these Frenchmen fare."
Struck by the audacity of the squire's proposal, Gripwell could not but assent, so, hastily collecting a heavy load of wood, the twain stumbled upon a path where numbers of soldiers and peasants were passing to and fro.
Unsuspected the Englishmen joined in the throng, and, bending low under their burdens, jogged steadily towards the vast city of tents.
"Ho, there, comrade!" shouted a cross-bowman. "Bring hither that fuel; our fire is all but out."
"Nay," replied Gripwell in good French. "That cannot be. This wood is for my master, the Lord of Rougemont."
This encounter showed that there was no suspicion towards a stranger, and, encouraged by the discovery, Geoffrey and his companion walked boldly down the lines till they reached a tent that the squire knew by reason of its size and magnificence belonged to no mean personage. Two men-at-arms stood without the door, over which hung a shield emblazoned with a golden oriflamme.
From within came the sounds of tankards clashing upon oaken boards, the rattle of dice, and mingled bursts of laughter, disappointment, and anger.
"Methought I was to hear a council of war," exclaimed Geoffrey in a low voice, "but 'tis a roystering crew."