Then Knollys, in light harness, came down into the courtyard, and with him a tall man in black armour, the vizor of whose basinet was closed. Three men-at-arms followed them. No one spoke. They mounted their horses. The porter was unbarring the gate.
The horse of the man in black armour grew restless, striking the stones with one fore-hoof.
Knollys laughed.
“Like master, like horse! Where is that page of yours, friend Godamar?”
The voice that answered was muffled by the helmet.
“I wait, sir, I wait.”
A door opened somewhere, and a figure came out into the torchlight—the figure of a slim lad wrapped in a green cloak. He wore a steel cap, with a hood of chain mail, and the scabbard of a sword knocked against his neat legs.
“Late, ever late, Master Bertrand!”
The page ran to the pad, mounted lightly, and put himself beside the man in the black armour.
“Pardon, lording, pardon.”