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“Not cowards!” he cried. “Your men and Leicester’s ride about the world, and draw sword and slay and die for the right as they see it. And you for the right as ye see it. But I, madame! I! I, who sat snug at home spilling ink and trimming rose-bushes! God’s world, madame, and I in it afraid to speak a word for Him! God’s world, and a curmudgeon in it grudging God the life He gave!” The man flung out his soft hands and snarled: “We are tempted in divers and insidious ways. But I, who rebuked you! behold, now, with how gross a snare was I entrapped!”

“I do not understand, my Osmund.”

“I was afraid, madame,” he returned, dully. “Everywhere men fight and I am afraid to die.”

So they stood silent in the ruins of Bastling.

“Of a piece with our lives,” Dame Alianora said at last. “All ruin, my Osmund.”

But Messire Heleigh threw back his head and laughed, new color in his face. “Presently men will build here, my Queen. Presently, as in legend the Arabian bird, arises from these ashes a lordlier and more spacious town.”

Then they went forward. The next day Fate loosed upon them Gui Camoys, lord of Bozon, Foliot, and Thwenge, who, riding alone through Poges Copse, found there a man and a woman over their limited supper. The woman had thrown back her hood, and Camoys drew rein to stare at her. Lispingly he spoke the true court dialect.

“Ma belle,” said this Camoys, in friendly condescension, “n’estez vous pas jongleurs?”

Dame Alianora smiled up at him. “Ouais, messire; mon mary faict les chancons–” Here she paused, with dilatory caution, for Camoys had leaped from his horse, giving a great laugh.

“A prize! ho, an imperial prize!” Camoys shouted. “A peasant woman with the Queen’s face, who speaks French! And who, madame, is this? Have you by any chance brought pious Lewis from oversea? Have I bagged a brace of monarchs?”

Here was imminent danger, for Camoys had known the Queen some fifteen years. Messire Heleigh rose to his feet, his five days’ beard glinting like hoar-frost as his mouth twitched.

“I am Osmund Heleigh, messire, younger brother to the Earl of Brudenel.”

“I have heard of you, I believe–the fellow who spoils parchment. This is odd company, however, Messire Osmund, for Brudenel’s brother.”

“A gentleman must serve his Queen, messire. As Cicero very justly observes–“

“I am inclined to think that his political opinions are scarcely to our immediate purpose. This is a high matter, Messire Heleigh. To let the sorceress pass is, of course, out of the question; upon the other hand, I observe that you lack weapons of defence. Yet if you will have the kindness to assist me in unarming, your courtesy will place our commerce on more equal footing.”

Osmund had gone very white. “I am no swordsman, messire–“

“Now, this is not handsome of you,” Camoys began. “I warn you that people will speak harshly of us if we lose this opportunity of gaining honor. And besides, the woman will be burned. Plainly, you owe it to all three of us to fight.”

“–but I refer my cause to God. I am quite at your service.”

“No, my Osmund!” Dame Alianora then cried. “It means your death.”

He spread out his hands. “That is God’s affair, madame.”

“Are you not afraid?” she breathed.

“Of course I am afraid,” said Messire Heleigh, irritably.

After that he unarmed Camoys, and presently they faced each other in their tunics. So for the first time in the journey Osmund’s long falchion saw daylight. He had thrown away his dagger, as Camoys had none.

The combat was sufficiently curious. Camoys raised his left hand. “So help me God and His saints, I have upon me neither bone, stone, nor witchcraft wherethrough the power and the word of God might be diminished or the devil’s power increased.”