The two rulers stood together in the courtyard, entirely alone, for no man dare frequent their immediate neighbourhood; but in a circle some distance removed from their centre, the Scotch and the French fraternised together, a preeminent assemblage numbering a thousand or more; and from the balconies beautiful ladies looked down on the inspiring scene.
The gates were still open and the drawbridge down, when a horseman came clattering over the causeway, and, heedless of the distinguished audience, which he scattered to right and left, amid curses on his clumsiness, drew up his foaming horse in the very presence of royalty itself.
Francis cried out angrily at this interruption.
“Unmannerly varlet, how dare you come dashing through this throng like a drunken ploughman!”
The rider flung himself off the panting horse and knelt before his enraged master.
“Sire,” he said, “my news may perhaps plead for me. The army of the Emperor Charles, in Provence, is broken and in flight. Spain has met a crushing defeat, and no foe insults the soil of France except by lying dead upon it.”
“Now, my good fellow,” cried the king with dancing eyes, “you are forgiven if you had ridden down half of my nobility.”
The joyous news spread like wildfire, and cheer upon cheer rose to heaven like vocal flame to mark its advance.
“Brother,” cried the great king to his newly arrived guest, placing an arm lovingly over his shoulder, his voice with suspicion of tremulousness about it, “you stalwart Scots have always brought luck to our fair land of France. This glad news is the more welcome to me that you are here when I receive it.”
And so the two, like affectionate kinsmen, walked together into the castle which, although James did not then know it, was to be his home for many months.