"Then, perchance, they are the German troops whom, report saith, the Dauphin hath hired."
"A truce to conjectures," said Sir Oliver. "Sound a tucket—one of our camp calls—and see what that will bring forth."
Hardly had the last notes of the trumpet died away ere the discord ceased, save for the clattering of a single horseman, who rode straight for the hedge of steel, guided by the fiercely-blazing camp-fire.
"Stand! Thy name, condition and errand," shouted Sir Oliver.
A rich rolling voice replied, "I am Sir Brian of Ennisbarry, in the county of Wexford. If ye be enemies of the King of England look to yourselves. Further, should any knight among you wish to ease his soul or seek some small advancement, I am here to help him in the furthering o'it."
"Certes, 'tis the Irish kernes," observed Sir Oliver in an undertone; then raising his voice he replied—
"Greetings, Sir Brian: two most unworthy knights of Southampton give thee welcome. I pray thee first quiet thy followers, then if it please thee join us around the camp-fire."
Amid a babel of voices the Irish horsemen formed a bivouac within a bow-shot of their English companions-in-arms, and when they had settled for the night, for they were about to encamp just before they stumbled across the outposts, Sir Brian, attended by two squires, rode up to the two Hampshire knights.
"Once again welcome, Sir Brian," exclaimed Sir Oliver. "Though I am afeared we have but sorry fare to offer thee."
"Sure, 'tis better than I've had these last two days," replied the Irishman, quaffing a horn of wine that Oswald had produced from the baggage on his master's sumpter horse.