Suddenly the companion whispered the knight, who thereupon, with a smiling face, turned to the body of gentlemen and saluted them, raising his goblet to them, and emptying it at a draught.
The knights readily responded to the appeal, and the next moment began conversing gaily with the two strangers.
The conversation, however, was soon interrupted by the arrival of two men, the one a squire of the stranger knight, the other a simple-looking country fellow, carrying his cap in his hand, and looking about him bashfully.
“Sire,” said the squire, softly, “this pilgrim is a songster, and he cometh from Normandy.”
“Normandy—dear, dear Normandy,” said the young knight, and as he spoke the words he looked handsomer than before.
“Dear Normandy,” said the grave, noiseless companion, as the hand lying on the table twitched. “Dear Normandy—I thought she had driven thee from her soil.”
The young knight frowned the truth of these few words; and then turning to the pilgrim troubadour, gave him some money, and asked him what he could sing.
“Ho—ho!” said the minstrel, laughing and yet trembling in the presence of the splendid company. “Ho—ho! I can sing all songs; but, my faith, the best is the history of our young duke, whom they call Robert the Devil. He hath the evil eye on him, my masters.”
Here he turned to the crowd of warriors who were drawing near, and did not mark the young knight place his right hand quickly upon his dagger.
“Sing of Robert, minstrel; sing of Robert the Devil.”