“But, fair kinswoman,” answered the younger Countess, “I have been told by my old nurse, that although the Rhinegrave [formerly a Rhenish prince] was the best lance at the great tournament at Strasbourg, and so won the hand of my respected ancestor, yet the match was no happy one, as he used often to scold, and sometimes even to beat, my great grandmother of blessed memory.”
“And wherefore not?” said the elder Countess, in her romantic enthusiasm for the profession of chivalry, “why should those victorious arms, accustomed to deal blows when abroad, be bound to restrain their energies at home? A thousand times rather would I be beaten twice a day by a husband whose arm was as much feared by others as by me, than be the wife of a coward, who dared neither to lift hand to his wife, nor to any one else!”
“I should wish you joy of such an active mate, fair aunt,” replied Isabelle, “without envying you, for if broken bones be lovely in tourneys, there is nothing less amiable in ladies' bower.”
“Nay, but the beating is no necessary consequence of wedding with a knight of fame in arms,” said the Lady Hameline, “though it is true that your ancestor of blessed memory, the Rhinegrave Gottfried, was something rough tempered, and addicted to the use of Rheinwein.
“The very perfect knight is a lamb among ladies, and a lion among lances. There was Thibault of Montigni—God be with him!—he was the kindest soul alive, and not only was he never so discourteous as to lift hand against his lady, but, by our good dame, he who beat all enemies without doors, found a fair foe who could belabour him within.—Well, 't was his own fault—he was one of the challengers at the Passage of Haflinghem, and so well bestirred himself, that, if it had pleased Heaven, and your grandfather, there might have been a lady of Montigni who had used his gentle nature more gently.”
The Countess Isabelle, who had some reason to dread this Passage of Haflinghem, it being a topic upon which her aunt was at all times very diffuse, suffered the conversation to drop, and Quentin, with the natural politeness of one who had been gently nurtured dreading lest his presence might be a restraint on their conversation, rode forward to join the guide, as if to ask him some questions concerning their route.
Meanwhile the ladies continued their journey in silence, or in such conversation as is not worth narrating, until day began to break, and as they had then been on horseback for several hours, Quentin, anxious lest they should be fatigued, became impatient to know their distance from the nearest resting place.
“I will show it you,” answered the guide, “in half an hour.”
“And then you leave us to other guidance?” continued Quentin.
“Even so, Seignior Archer,” replied the man, “my journeys are always short and straight. When you and others, Seignior Archer, go by the bow, I always go by the cord.”