“Dunois,” replied Crawford, “if another had told me thou hadst brought the noble Prince into this jeopardy to serve any purpose of thine own, I had told him it was false. And now that thou dost pretend so thyself, I can hardly believe it is for the sake of speaking the truth.”
“Noble Crawford,” said Orleans, who had now entirely recovered from his swoon, “you are too like in character to your friend Dunois, not to do him justice. It was indeed I that dragged him hither, most unwillingly, upon an enterprise of harebrained passion, suddenly and rashly undertaken.—Look on me all who will,” he added, rising up and turning to the soldiery, “I am Louis of Orleans, willing to pay the penalty of my own folly. I trust the King will limit his displeasure to me, as is but just.—Meanwhile, as a Child of France must not give up his sword to any one—not even to you, brave Crawford—fare thee well, good steel.”
So saying, he drew his sword from its scabbard, and flung it into the lake. It went through the air like a stream of lightning, and sank in the flashing waters, which speedily closed over it. All remained standing in irresolution and astonishment, so high was the rank, and so much esteemed was the character, of the culprit, while, at the same time, all were conscious that the consequences of his rash enterprise, considering the views which the King had upon him, were likely to end in his utter ruin.
Dunois was the first who spoke, and it was in the chiding tone of an offended and distrusted friend: “So! your Highness hath judged it fit to cast away your best sword, in the same morning when it was your pleasure to fling away the King's favour, and to slight the friendship of Dunois?”
“My dearest kinsman,” said the Duke, “when or how was it in my purpose to slight your friendship by telling the truth, when it was due to your safety and my honour?”
“What had you to do with my safety, my most princely cousin, I would pray to know?” answered Dunois, gruffly. “What, in God's name, was it to you, if I had a mind to be hanged, or strangled, or flung into the Loire, or poniarded, or broke on the wheel, or hung up alive in an iron cage, or buried alive in a castle fosse, or disposed of in any other way in which it might please King Louis to get rid of his faithful subject?—(You need 'not wink and frown, and point to Tristan l'Hermite—I see the scoundrel as well as you do.) But it would not have stood so hard with me.—And so much for my safety. And then for your own honour—by the blush of Saint Magdalene, I think the honour would have been to have missed this morning's work, or kept it out of sight. Here has your Highness got yourself unhorsed by a wild Scottish boy.”
“Tut, tut!” said Lord Crawford, “never shame his Highness for that. It is not the first time a Scottish boy hath broke a good lance—I am glad the youth hath borne him well.”
“I will say nothing to the contrary,” said Dunois, “yet, had your Lordship come something later than you did, there might have been a vacancy in your band of Archers.”
“Ay, ay,” answered Lord Crawford, “I can read your handwriting in that cleft morion. Some one take it from the lad and give him a bonnet, which, with its steel lining, will keep his head better than that broken loom—And let me tell your Lordship, that your own armour of proof is not without some marks of good Scottish handwriting. But, Dunois, I must now request the Duke of Orleans and you to take horse and accompany me, as I have power and commission to convey you to a place different from that which my goodwill might assign you.”
“May I not speak one word, my Lord of Crawford, to yonder fair ladies?” said the Duke of Orleans.