“Pshaw,” said Hepborne, vexed with the notion that the boy was betraying pusillanimity; “is that the face, are those the looks, and is that the pallid hue of fear thou dost mean to put on as the proofs of thy fitness for deeds of manhood and warlike encounter?”
The page dropped his head, ashamed and hurt by his master’s chiding; but still he did not let go the rein—
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said he calmly, “I did but argue that thy prowess, shown upon a vile brute, were but lost. Rather let me attempt to attack yonder salvage; he better befits mine [[187]]unpractised arm than thine honoured lance, which hath overthrown puissant knights.”
“Tush, boy,” said Sir Patrick, somewhat better pleased to see the spirit that lurked in the youth, “thou art much too young, and thine arm is as yet too feeble to fit thee for encounter with yonder huge mass of thews and muscles. Stand by, my dear boy, and let me pass.”
He gave the palfrey the spur, and sprang forward against the bull. The page couched his slender lance, to which a pennon was attached, and bravely followed the knight in the charge, as fast as his palfrey could gallop. The bull, seeing Hepborne coming on him, bellowed aloud, and, putting down his nose to the ground, he shut his eyes, and darted forward against his assailant. Hepborne wheeled his horse suddenly out of his way, and, with great adroitness, ran his lance through him as he passed him. But his manœuvre, though manifesting excellent judgment, and admirable skill and horsemanship, had nearly proved fatal to the page, whose palfrey, coming up in a straight line behind that of the knight, and seeing the bull coming directly upon him, sprang to the side, and by that means unhorsing the boy, left him lying on the ground, in the very path of the infuriated beast. In agony from his wound, the creature immediately proceeded to attack the youth with his horns. But the page having kept hold of his spear, with great presence of mind, ran its point, with the flapping pennon attached to it, right into the animal’s eyes. The creature instantly retreated a few steps, and before he could renew his attack he was overpowered by the knight and his party, who immediately surrounded him, and was killed by at least a dozen spear-thrusts at once. A general charge was now made against the rest that still stood at a distance, crowded together in a knot; when the whole of them, wheeling suddenly round, galloped off with the utmost swiftness, and were lost in the depths of the forest.
Hepborne leaped from his horse and ran anxiously to assist Maurice de Grey, who still lay on the ground, apparently faint from the fall he had had, and perhaps, too, partly from the alarm he had been in. He raised him up, upon which the boy burst into tears.
“Art thou hurt, Maurice?” demanded Hepborne, with alarm.
“Nay,” said the boy, “I am not hurt.”
“Fye on thee, then,” said Hepborne; “let not tears sully the glory thou has but now earned by thy manly attempt in so boldly riding to my rescue. Verily thou wilt be a brave lad [[188]]anon. Be assured, my beloved boy,” continued he, as he warmly embraced him, “I feel as grateful for thine affectionate exertions in my behalf as if I now owed my life to them. But dry up thy tears, and let them not henceforth well out so frequently, lest thy manhood and courage may be questioned.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the boy, “these are not the tears of cowardice; they are the tears of gratitude to heaven for thy safety; and methinks they are less dishonourable to me,” continued he, with an arch smile of satisfaction, “since I see that thine own manly cheek is somewhat moistened.”