"And to go whither?"
"To the coast. Since our mission is accomplished, and my father is no longer in the hands of the Lord of Malevereux—though, for aught I know, he hath again met with some misfortune—we must needs make our way homewards. But look! A man approaches."
"I trust he is peaceably inclined," observed Oswald, handling the dagger he had snatched from the luckless soldier. "Let us hide behind yonder tree till we can make more of him."
Accordingly the lads took shelter and awaited the stranger's approach.
"'Tis Néron de Boeuf," whispered Geoffrey, as the new-comer drew nearer. "He was ever a good servant of my father. Let us show ourselves and gain tidings."
"Is he still true to his salt?" asked Oswald cautiously.
"Without doubt. Ho, Néron! What's amiss with Taillemartel?"
The man stood still at the sound of the lad's voice, with amazement written in every line of his wrinkled face. He was a short, corpulent, middle-aged man, who had held a post in the buttery at the castle, and, as Geoffrey had said, had always boasted of loyalty to his master.
"Pardieu, monsieur!" he exclaimed as Geoffrey stepped from behind the tree-trunk. "What has happened to thee? And Monsieur Oswald also."
"It matters little what hath befallen us, Néron," replied Geoffrey. "Tell us who holds Taillemartel, and where is Sir Oliver?"