So they hastened, while above them the canopy of leaves grew denser, and more clouds piled across the dimming sun. Then as they swung round a turn, they came upon a man with a great load of fagots on his back,—a tall, coarse-faced fellow, with a shock head and unkempt beard, hatless, dressed in a dirt-dyed blouse held by a leathern belt, woollen trousers, and high, rude boots.
Herbert rode up to him, as he stood staring with dazed, lack-lustre eyes at the company.
"Ho, sirrah; and are we on the Baron of St. Julien's land?" No answer; then again, "Are we on the Baron of St. Julien's land?" Still no answer, while the scoundrel gazed about like a cornered cat, looking for chance to escape. Herbert grasped his ear in no gentle pinch.
"I work miracles," bellowed he. "I make the dumb speak!" Then as he twisted the ear, the man howled out:—
"Yes, this is his land."
"And why not all this before?" roared Herbert.
"I love my lord," growled the fellow; "how do I know but that you seek his ill? Sorrow enough he has, without need of more."
"Ha!" exclaimed Richard, "what is this? Speak out, my man. I am his friend and yours!"
But before he could get answer, the pound, pound, of several horsemen was heard ahead. And they saw in the road four riders, two accoutred men-at-arms, two others, by their dress and steeds evidently gentlemen of the lesser sort. One of these, a tall young man of about Richard's age, spurred ahead; and as he drew near, he dropped his lance-head in salute.
"Noble lord," said he, "do I speak with Richard Longsword of Cefalu, grandson of the Baron of St. Julien?"