The Duke of Lancaster had come in bearing a suit of armour and a cloak.
"Give me your sword, Tom."
The soldier bent his knee and presented the hilt.
"Now," she stood up waving the sword lightly above the master's head, "will you be my true knight?"
The master sank down on both knees, and lifted up his clasped hands.
"Rise," cried the Queen, striking the accolade on his shoulder. "You are too great for any poor titles or dignities of my chivalry, but be my friend, Mr. Brand, and put on the harness of my knights. Staunch champion," her voice broke, "true, loyal friend, there's nothing left for the Queen to do but pray. God save you this wild night, God save and keep you in this fearful war."
He kissed her outstretched hand. "Good-bye, my Queen."
"Good-bye, my champion. Good-bye until we meet in happier times."
And so she swept from the room, and the Guardsman in the corridor who followed at her signal saw that the Queen was crying.
Lancaster served Mr. Brand as squire, assisting him while he changed his civilian clothes for the gold harness and scarlet cloak of an officer of the Guard, the only dress which would give him even a moderate degree of safety in the streets of the town. Brand made not the least pretence to a military bearing, but he was an athlete in habit, and the harness fitted him well. He was thinking too intently to be awkward or self-conscious in disguise, and when at last the trooper brought a big, black stallion into the courtyard, he swung into the saddle with the ease of a horseman. The Prince was less suspicious at the sight of horsemanship.