Chapter VII: Part 7

While the duchess was hammering at the gong and screaming furiously for help, and while from the rooms below, where revelry was toward, came now the noise of answering cries and clamor, the arras that masked the door of the turret was dashed aside and Simon sprang into the room. From where he waited for Argathona, below in the shadow of the tower, the shrieking of the duchess had reached his ears, and he lost no time in leaping up the turret stairs to see what had happened. In a moment his eyes took in the scene--the blood-stained weapon on the floor, the duchess screaming and beating on the gong, the young Lord of Athens stretched his length in blood, and Argathona bowed in care above him. Simon sprang to her side.

"Heaven's pity, maiden," he ejaculated, anxiously. "How are you betrayed?"

Argathona looked up at him with calm, melancholy eyes.

"My love is wounded," she answered quietly, "and he has swooned from his fall, being still weakened by the onslaught in the wood, but there is no fear for him."

The dryad had to speak close into Simon's ear, for the continued calling of the duchess and the growing clamor in the now aroused palace made it hard for him to hear.

From her bosom she drew a handful of leaves, and pressed them into Simon's palms.

"These are leaves of the herb of healing," she whispered. "I have set some on his hurt to stop the blood. Renew them soon, bruise them in his drink, and he will be whole within a day. I think it may prove that I cannot wait here, so you must tend him."

"I have sworn to serve you and stay with you--" Simon began, but Argathona stopped him.

"You serve me best in serving him," she remonstrated, "and when he is hale you must bring him to me safe and sound in the greenwood."

Simon promised with his heart, and would have promised with his lips but there was no time to say more. The billows of sound in the palace had swelled to a mighty rush and trampling of feet, and in another instant the door was flung open, and many knights came into the room--Count Ernault, Sir Guy, Sir Jaufre, Fernand Ximenes, and others who had been tasting the duke's cheer.

"Who calls for help?" Count Ernault asked, looking around him in amazement.

The Duchess Esclaramonde was standing full height with her hands extended in appeal.

"I call for help," she cried. "Where is the Duke of Athens?"

Count Ernault sprang forward to where Rainouart lay with Argathona and Simon supporting him.

"What ails the prince?" he asked, and as Simon growled back, "The she-devil from Thebes has stabbed him," Ernault turned to the knights who were hot upon his heels and bade them keep back and let the prince have air. The gentlemen of Thebes among the throng separated themselves from the others and ranged themselves behind their duchess, questioning her and whispering together. Fernand Ximenes was already by her side.

"Fear nothing," he said, softly, "I am your friend," and then he stood apart, silent and watchful. Along the corridor came the thunder of heavy feet.

"Here is the duke," cried Jaufre de Brabant, and even as he spoke Duke Baldwin staggered into the room. He had been eating hugely, he had been drinking deeply, he was flushed with meat and wine, and furious at the interruption which had taken him from table. He glared around him like a baited bull, seeing little at first, for his eyes swam with the drink he carried and the confusion of the shifting lights.

"What is the matter?" he bellowed, his raging face turning from one to other of those about him. Then catching sight of his son upon the ground, and the duchess standing apart, and the blood-stained dagger upon the floor between them, he veered to her in a hot fury.

"Woman, what have you done?" he vociferated. Esclaramonde fell on her knees and stretched out her hands to him, but her voice was full of menace, though her words were words of entreaty.

"Justice, great duke," she shrilled, "justice on my false lord. Although he is your son, he is still your subject, and amenable to all the laws of chivalry and honor."

The duke moved upon the kneeling woman, lifting his great hands as if to strike her, whereat there was murmur among the Thebans and many hands set to sword-hilts.

"Woman, what have you done?" he asked again, and again she answered him defiantly, conscious of her backing, conscious of the neighborhood of Fernand Ximenes, conscious of the chivalry of the duke.

"Justice," she answered again, "justice on my false lord, who sought to drug my senses on my wedding night that he might entertain his paramour."

The duke stood instantly still, rigid as an image. "His paramour!" he echoed, glancing round the room, for to him, as to all the others, the only woman present was the Duchess of Esclaramonde herself, and by his son he only saw as all the others saw Simon the soldier of fortune and the young knight of Eleusis. The duke strode to where his son lay.

"Is my son dead?" he asked. Argathona, kneeling by Rainouart's seeming lifeless body, whispered to Count Ernault that he was little hurt, although stunned by his fall, and would soon recover, and Count Ernault, turning to the duke, repeated her message.

"Bear him to his chamber and summon my physician," the duke ordered, and in a moment the strong arms of the young prince's friends--Guy, Jaufre, Ambrose, and Raymond--lifted him unconscious from the floor and bore him to the adjoining room and laid him on the marriage bed. Then glaring round him with the face that all men feared who saw it so, Baldwin commanded:

"Tell me what has happened?"

Esclaramonde rose to her feet and pointed at Argathona, who was standing, now tranquil, with Simon by her side.

"That is a woman," she cried. "That cup contains the wine of sleep. It was poured that I might drink it and might sleep while he gave his false love the kisses due to me. But I was warned and did not drink, and when this woman came I stabbed him in her arms to avenge my honor."

Baldwin turned to Argathona.

"Are you a woman?" he asked, with wonder in his drunken voice. Argathona answered him calmly:

"I am no man, great duke."

The duke clinched and unclinched his great fists. He was sobering rapidly in his rage. "Are you my son's lover?" he questioned.

The dryad answered simply:

"I love him as a maid should love her bachelor, true heart and true soul, and he loved me ere he was stolen from me."

"Do not listen to her," Esclaramonde clamored; "she is a filthy witch and she has ensorcelled him."

Duke Baldwin lifted up his hand to command silence. Drunk or sober he was the master here. Whatever had happened he was the judge. If his son had sinned his son should suffer, but it was for Baldwin of the Rock to sit in judgment. Some dim memory of an ancient tale of Brutus, a Roman, troubled his muddled mind. While Esclaramonde was speaking, Fernand Ximenes had moved a little nearer to her and lightly touched her on the arm with a touch that meant reassurance, a touch that convinced her of a friend.

"Silence, lady," Baldwin ordered, not uncivilly; then he turned again to Argathona: "Boy, woman, witch," he demanded, "whatever you be, what is your story?"

Argathona answered him as tranquilly as if she were telling an old tale to old friends in the forest. Simon gaped in wonder at her, with his hand ever at the hilt of his sword to help her.

"Your son was wounded by robbers in the wood. I tended his hurt, and we changed loves and vows. While I went for healing herbs, in my absence this lady came and bore him to Athens, persuading his sick senses that it was she who had succored him."

The duke frowned horridly. "A strange tale!" he thundered. "A lying tale!" the duchess cried eagerly. Then Simon came forward and faced her, and in a clap she knew that he was the man that had escaped from her in the wood, and she went pale for an instant and caught her breath.

"It is a true tale, by your leave," Simon asserted, "for I was by from first to last."

The duke waved woman-interrupter and man-interrupter impatiently aside, and still addressed Argathona.

"How came you here?" he asked, and again the dryad answered him as calmly as if she had been singing a country-side song.

"In a boy's coat I came hither; in a man's mail I rode in the jousts, and afterwards wooed and won that lady with a golden apple to send her lord to sleep with a drowsy draught and welcome me as her lover to-night." She stooped and picked the apple up as she spoke.

The duke's grim frown grew grimmer. "Why did not my son drink?" he asked.

Argathona answered: "I warned him not to drink, but to make believe, for I wished him to know the worth of the woman he had wedded."

The face of the duke was an ugly sight to see, as he glanced from the slender girl in the boy's garb to the woman who had married his son that day and striven to murder him that night.

"This is a tangled tale," he snarled, "and some here are lying their way to hell at a hand-gallop, but this is no hour and this no mood for judgment."

He pawed at his forehead with his huge hands as he spoke, as if he hoped by physical effort to dispel the sudden troubles of the night. Then he turned to Esclaramonde:

"Lady," he said, "if it be proved that my son has wronged you, you shall have justice, for no man is son of mine who swerves in aught from his knightly fealty, but it may prove that you have slandered my son, in which case I shall deal justice upon you."

The duchess went pale anew at this threat, and those of her following standing near her made speed to ease their swords in their sheaths, seeing which act the partisans of Duke Baldwin did the like defiance. Fernand Ximenes sidled to the duchess and breathed quickly in her ear, "Defy him; I stand by you." And Esclaramonde chose defiance. With a bold and angry countenance she made a step towards the Duke of Athens.

"Baldwin of Athens," she said, haughtily, "I am a sovereign prince even as you are a sovereign prince, and you hold no right of judgment over your peers. I ride hence to-night, I and my people, and from this hour, in the name of my flouted womanhood, Thebes declares war upon Athens."

At this belligerent speech those of her company fell to drawing their swords and calling out "Thebes! Thebes!" furiously, while the huge duke grinned at them like a boar at bay.

"Are you so brave?" he raged--"then I begin the war by making you my prisoner. Count Ernault, your duty." And he looked fiercely at the lord-marshal as who should say, "Take this woman into your custody."

All was now in an uproar. The Theban knights were a line of lifted steel by the side of their lady, crying the name of their city, and behind Duke Baldwin the Athenian nobles shook their swords and hurled back their battle-cry of "Athens" against the "Thebes" of their antagonists. Argathona, standing apart, and for the moment forgotten, watched the turmoil with pitying eyes, and Simon beside her stared indifferent, resting upon his great sword.

To Duke Baldwin the Theban menace seemed meaningless; for he knew very well that the duchess had but a handful of knights and men-at-arms in her service within his city, and that he could crush them all at a blow as easily as dance handy-dandy. And indeed the menace would have been meaningless if the duchess had no more help to rely on to carry her out of Athens than the escort she had brought with her from Thebes. But it seemed that she had much more to rely on, for now beneath the angry arch of lifted blades Fernand Ximenes advanced slowly and addressed the duke.

"Magnificence," he began, blandly, smiling into the astonished face of Baldwin, "surely you wrong your honor if you attempt to restrain the departure of the Theban lady. She is, as she says, a sovereign prince, over whom you can claim no shade of vassalage."

This unexpected intervention amazed Duke Baldwin as much as if a miracle had taken place. Here was a leader of his hirelings, a man of the Catalan Grand Company, presuming to advise him, Baldwin of the Rock. He tried to speak, but the words choked in his throat, and he glared inarticulate at Fernand Ximenes, who went on with his speech in perfect composure.

"By my advice she shall be suffered to go free hence, as she came free hither, and if war ensues between Athens and Thebes thereafter, then may Heaven defend the one that best deserves the defence of Heaven."

As Fernand Ximenes ended his ambiguous speech, Duke Baldwin found his voice.

"You are over ready with unasked-for counsel," he shouted, "but here in Athens I follow my own rede."

"Surely, surely," Ximenes answered, with unchanged tranquillity of face and bearing, "a man can do no more, however big he be, and for my own part, little as I am, I can do no less. But I say my mind and in saying it I say the mind of the Catalan Grand Company."

As he spoke he drew his sword very softly from its scabbard, for all the world as if he were no more than curious to look upon its shining blade, and when it was naked in his hand he employed it to no other purpose than the tracing of imaginary lines upon the floor between him and the duke. But all his comrades of the company that were in the room drew their swords too, and ranged themselves with the fellowship of Esclaramonde of Thebes.

Duke Baldwin saw that he was trapped and baffled. He could not defy Ximenes out of hand, glad as he would have been to do so, for he knew that the games and festals had brought every man of the Catalan Grand Company into the capital, and that to provoke a conflict with their leader just then, however confident he might be of his superior forces and of the inevitable result, would be the very top of foolhardiness, while to start strife now in the crowded palace, where the opponents would be wellnigh man to man, would turn the place into a shambles. He made a great gulp of his discomfiture.

"Friend," he said to Ximenes, with a suddenly commanded dignity that well became his bulk, "you remind me betimes and wisely."

He turned from the enigmatical Spaniard and faced the duchess, paying her a grave salutation.

"Lady, Athens accepts your challenge. Go your way in peace till we meet again in war. Look to the walls of your city, for in a week they will need rebuilding."

He made her another reverence, throttling his choler, but Esclaramonde laughed at his anger and his gravity.

"Thebes has no fear of Athens, great duke," she answered, mockingly. He paid no heed to her, but, turning to Ernault, bade him see that the duchess and her people were suffered to quit the city unopposed. Ernault instantly left the room. The duchess smiled at him as he passed her, but she won no answering smile from his grave face. Esclaramonde made the duke a bow.

"We thank you for your reluctant courtesy," she sneered. Then, turning, she moved slowly from the room with her head high and a triumphant smile, followed by her Theban knights. Fernand Ximenes sheathed his sword, saluted the duke with changeless visage, and followed quietly in her wake. As he passed out his quick eye noted the pale face of one that stood on the fringe of Duke Baldwin's fellowship, gazing eagerly at him, so as without ever showing to attract his attention. The Catalan leader exchanged a glance with Demetrius of Epirus, and knew that Thebes had another adherent in the league against Athens. Ximenes was very well content to understand this, and Demetrius of Epirus was very well content to be understood. And so Ximenes went his way.

There was heavy silence in the room as the Theban party passed out, and the silence brooded over the room for a while as the footsteps of the seceders died away along the passages and down the stairs. Already, below in the great court-yard, could be heard faintly the bustle of men and horses where Count Ernault was taking orders for the departure of the Duchess of Thebes. The knights in the room sheathed their swords and stared into one another's faces, marvelling at these untoward events and the shifts of fortune. As for Duke Baldwin, he stood quite still for a little, stupid with fury to be thus bearded and deceived. But presently he remembered another enemy, and turned fiercely to Argathona as to one on whom he could safely ease his spleen.

"As for you," he shouted, "you woman out of a wood, who claim to love my son and to be loved by him, it seems very sure that you have by some manner of sorcery bewitched the boy, and to practise sorcery is to covet death in Athens. Wherefore I shall this now clap you into prison, and to-morrow will hand you over to Mother-Church, who will know best how to deal with a witch."

Simon made ready for the swinging of his great sword. Ere any one of them all should lay hands upon the damsel there would be a headless duke in Athens. But Argathona's face remained as changelessly grave as befits in danger one who claims a kinship with the high gods, and she spoke out loud and clear.

"Aliens of Athens, you live hateful lives, you live shameful lives, and my spirit is weary of you. I came a stranger into the ways of men, and I go hence very grateful to be stranger to their ways to the end. For you cannot hold me here against my will, and of my own will I come not again to your borders. Fear, for there is a curse upon you; fear, for you have polluted the beautiful city, and dreadful is the vengeance of the gods."

All the while she was speaking to the astounded hearers, a high wind seemed to be rising in the night, and even as she made an end of her speech, a great squalling gust rushed through the open window, and in a clap every torch and candle in the great room was puffed out, and for the space of a moment all was heavy blackness. When lights were found, and the room bright again, there was no sign nor trace of the girl from the greenwood who had fought in the lists as the Prince of Eleusis.

XXIV

THE HONOR OF THE ROCK

When Simon saw that Argathona was clean gone from the room where the others were blinking at the change from light to dark and from dark to light again, he guessed that she had slipped away by the turret-stair, and he knew that it would not take her long, with her cunning, to get clear of the city. Yet, to make assurance surer, he set his back to the arras that masked the turret-door, and stood there with his sword bare waiting composedly for the trouble that seemed very likely to ensue.

Indeed, the trouble came quickly, for as soon as Duke Baldwin had winked his eyes clear of the dazzle and saw that Argathona was gone, he was very wroth with Simon for shielding her retreat, calling him a companion of witches and other ill names, while he bade those about him fling the rascal from the path. But Simon silenced him with words few indeed, but fiercer and fouler than even the duke could compass, and the duke's orders were so incoherent that none knew, or, indeed, greatly desired to know, what he wished. For while Simon stood there at vantage, with his back against the door, with his mighty sword before him, there were few of those by Duke Baldwin's side that liked the looks of him well enough to covet a closer acquaintanceship without need. For though they were valiant knights all, they remembered Simon's play with the Varangian, and esteemed him no less terrible than the giant Fierabras, with whom Ogier combated in the tale of Ogier the Dane.

Now while they stood aloof, uncertain what to do, Simon shouted anew at the duke:

"Duke of dotards, duke of donkeys, you are a foul-lipped fool to call your own son's sweetheart a witch, for she shows as one of God's angels before the sluts and trulls you cherish. So if you have the pluck of your bulk, you will fight this quarrel out with me, sword to sword or fist to fist, I care not which, and we shall see who is the better man and who serves the better kind of woman."

Outside in the court-yard, and beyond on the high-road down the hill, could be heard the rattle and clatter of the men and horses of Esclaramonde's escort starting on their departure for Thebes. In the room a silence like a stupor fell on those that heard their great duke so flouted by a common man-at-arms. But the great duke himself, whose moods veered like the vane, was only tickled with Simon's insolence, and he laughed a wild laugh, for he prized courage in others as much as he prided himself on his own courage, and he was mightily minded to try a fall with the big man.

"Now, by the beard of King Philip," he shouted, "I have a mind to meet your wishes. I had an itch to come to grips with you this morning, and I cherish no desire to deny myself twice in the same day."

The duke was volatile for all his obstinacy, and already the thought of a bout with Simon had dissipated much of his chagrin at preceding discomfitures. Duke Baldwin always charged headlong at any whim, as a bull charges at red temptation.

"On your knee, fellow," he commanded.

"Nay," grunted Simon, "I have nothing to kneel for."

His simplicity missed the duke's meaning, and when the duke saw how he missed, he grinned, for his purpose was to make a knight of the giant.

"Nay, man, on your knee to take the accolade. I cannot cross weapons with one that does not wear the rank of a knight. When you are knighted we will test your mettle."

Now Simon, seeing what the duke would be at, housed his sword, and, coming forward, bent his knee, while those of the duke's party, familiar as they were with their master's vagaries, stared in amaze to find him, after the passing of such great matters, so mightily taken up with so small a thing. But nothing ever seemed small to Duke Baldwin that jumped with his immediate humor. The duke drew his sword and was about to raise it when he bethought him.

"Stay, what is thy name, fellow?" he questioned; and Simon answered, readily enough:

"Simon the Strong, of sweet Rouen city."

Again the duke lifted his sword, and again he lowered it.

"Tell me, friend Simon," he inquired, "have you any broad lands to your name?"

Simon bethought him of his mother's cabbage-garden out in the suburbs of Rouen, a narrow patch enough where a gaunt goat tugged at its tether. It was many a long day since he had seen it, but it came very vividly to his memory now, and made him feel qualmish for a moment, with a spasm of home-sickness.

"In sooth," he answered, slowly, "I have a trifle of property at Florency, but it is no great matter, truly."

"Never care for that," said the duke, cheerfully; "small or great it will serve the turn well enough to help you to gentility."

Then he gave Simon a clap on the shoulder with the flat of his sword and cried out, "Arise, Sir Simon of Florency," and so straightway Simon arose and marvelled a little in himself that he seemed no different for his new honor.

"Now, friend," said the duke, sheathing his sword and stretching his great arms apart, "see if you can spill me as you spilled my tall soldier this morning."

Simon was willing, everyway. He was as eager to try the duke's strength as the duke was to try Simon's, and, win or lose, the struggle meant time gained for Argathona, though he had little fear for her safety. Then, as none of the knights present had the right or the courage to protest against the strange encounter, the two strong men were about to set to in good earnest when their purposes were interrupted by Jaufre, Guy, Ambrose, and Raymond, who came from the bedchamber to tell the duke that his son desired to speak with him.

The duke was vexed at the interruption, for he had set his heart on a bout with Simon, and with him the immediate impulse was ever peremptory to the exclusion of all other thoughts and needs. But he could not very well deny his son, though he cherished some rancor against him as being the cause of the knight's trouble and muddle.

"Sirs," he said to the knights, "these jars must not mar our festival. There are other women in the world, and will be other weddings, but in the mean time you will do well to return to the banqueting-hall and continue your cheer."

Sir Jaufre, Sir Guy, and the others quitted the room. The duke bade Simon stay where he was and went into the next room, where he found Rainouart stretched upon what should have been his marriage bed. The duke's physician was by his side, but he left the room on the entrance of the duke, after assuring him that the wound was slight, as being the work of an unpractised hand, and would soon heal.

Rainouart was very pale, less with the loss of blood than with all the dear and grievous emotions that had pillaged his heart so fiercely that night, but his spirit was high and bright in his eyes, and he spoke to his father with a firm voice.

"Where is my sweet lady?"

"If you mean the lady of Thebes," said Duke Baldwin, "she has gone hence in a great rage."

"I do not think of her," Rainouart said. "I think of the girl from the greenwood, the girl who saved my life once, and now has saved my honor."

Duke Baldwin grinned maliciously, for he was vexed with his son for being such a fool as to get tangled up in his love affairs and thereby bring people to loggerheads untimely.

"Why, she has gone, too. There came a squall of wind that blew the lights out, and in the blackness the valiant lass slipped away, with none to stay her."

At this news Rainouart's heart was wrung with such anguish that even the dull duke could read his misery in his eyes, and even Baldwin's tough composition felt something that was distinctly akin to a pulse of pity, and he added:

"The Jill-o'-lantern left her giant squire behind her."

Rainouart lifted himself eagerly on his elbow.

"I would see that squire at once."

"That may be easily done," said Duke Baldwin, "for he waits in the next room."

Therefore Duke Baldwin raised his voice and trumpeted loudly for Sir Simon of Florency, and instantly Simon lifted the curtain and came into the room and looked with some compassion at the young knight on the couch. Rainouart recognized him at once as the squire who stood by the pavilion of the Prince of Eleusis.

"Where is my lady?" Rainouart asked, feverishly. Simon answered him leisurely:

"She has gone back to the forest, being a little disheartened with your city and its citizens, but she left you these leaves for the healing of your hurt, and this message, that you are to come to her in the greenwood."

As Simon said his say, he drew from his pouch the leaves of the herb of healing that Argathona had given him, and laid them on the bed. Rainouart took them tenderly in his hands and kissed them fondly, while the duke smiled sourly at the folly that leads a man to the lipping of weeds.

"I will go to her in the morning," Rainouart declared; but here Duke Baldwin shook his head.

"That may not be, son," he said, emphatically.

"May not be," Rainouart flung back, hotly. "I tell you it must be. She saved my life and I loved her, and we swore our mutual troth. Then I was practised on by magic, and I forgot my true-love, and went in bondage to a false faith, and from this shame my true-love has saved me now as before she saved me from death. I am bound to her in honor as I am bound to her in love, and on my honor and by my love I will go to her with the dawn."

Again Duke Baldwin shook his head, and again Duke Baldwin answered as before.

"That may not be, son." Then seeing the anger shine in Rainouart's eyes, and the stubborn look on Rainouart's face that seemed to mirror his own native obstinacy, he went on in a voice that for him was gentle.

"Hear me out, son Rainouart, for your honor is as near to me and as dear to me as my own, and against that I think no tongue has ever wagged."

Rainouart's face darkened, for he thought of his mother, the gracious lady so basely abandoned, and he thanked God in his heart that his honor was not as the honor of Duke Baldwin. But Duke Baldwin was not skilled to read either his son's face or his son's heart, and he went on, bluffly:

"As for love, why, I am a jolly lover, too, though you and I read in the book of love at different chapters. But you cannot go to your lass yet awhile, for your very honor's sake."

"Why not?" Rainouart asked, with such a frown as might have wrinkled his father's forehead, and the big duke, who liked his son's manner best when most it resembled his own, went on very amiably to explain. He told how the Duchess of Thebes had declared war upon Athens, at which tidings Rainouart laughed contemptuously; and how Fernand Ximenes inclined to her, and would in all likelihood whistle the Grand Company to her cause. At this Rainouart's eyes shone and his pale cheeks flushed ruddy, for if this were so, it promised a fight that would be worth the fighting.

"Therefore," the duke went on, "your sweetheart must wait awhile till this little brawl be over, for I am sure that no lass who played the lad so gallantly as your fancy would have her lover lag aloof from a battle."

He smiled somewhat sourly as he spoke, for he had no great confidence in the martial constancy of knights that plied their books and fell in love with country wenches. But he read Rainouart's answer in his eyes before he got it from his lips, and it reassured him.

"While Athens is at war," Rainouart said, simply, "I ride and fight with Athens. When Athens is at peace I will marry my true-love."

Simon nodded his head approvingly, and the duke for his part applauded in his heart. He liked the lad's belligerent spirit, however little he relished the nonsense about the witch in the wood. Duke Baldwin's affection for his son, never very vehement, had waxed when he had returned as the betrothed of the Duchess of Thebes, but had dwindled to insignificance with the shattering of that alliance and the chance that his son might die by a stroke from a woman's hand. Indeed, the jovial duke, alarmed by the sudden possibility of an heirless duchy, had even in the last few minutes begun to revolve again in his mind a project that he had abandoned with the coming of the Duchess of Thebes. He had up to that time been so much disappointed with his son that, although as a general principle much averse to marriage as an institution, he was seriously thinking of wedding again. He loved to have about him none but such as were jolly eaters, jolly drinkers, jolly lovers, jolly soldiers, and when he observed the difference between his son and himself and those he cherished, he shuddered over the thought that such a puling, mulish reader of books might one day rule in Athens. Baldwin was still in the prime of life, with every right to hope for an heir, and he began to reconcile himself to the thought of a state which he had always regarded as bondage, though when it existed for him before he had allowed it to bind him but little. In such case the young prince might be clapped into a monastery to doze away his life over tomes of nonsense, while the jolly duke would see to it that the son-child of his dreams should be brought up to a very different purpose.

Now, however, the readiness of Rainouart to obey the call to arms made Baldwin more content with his son, though he frowned at the foolish words about marrying his true-love. However, with the gain of a little time Rainouart's mind might change, though that did not seem likely, or he might be prevailed upon to take a less high-flown sense of his obligations to his lovely amazon, or, at the worst, the girl might be got rid of some way or other.

"Well," he said, cheerfully, "you must wait a while ere you can talk of marriage to a maid. For you are married, lad, hard and fast, married to the lady Esclaramonde of Thebes, for a marriage is a marriage though it be but a marriage in name."

Rainouart gave a groan at the duke's speech, and Simon, who had not thought of this dilemma, scratched his chin and scowled. The duke nodded sagaciously.

"Only our Holy Father the Pope can set you apart now, for even when we take Thebes it would scarcely chime with the chivalry of the Rock to kill the baggage, however much she deserve it. But I will send an envoy to Avignon to put our case before the pontiff. By the time he returns we shall have taken Thebes, and then you will be a free man to go a-wooing in a wood."

"And till then," Simon added, "I will be your esquire, if you agree, for such was the wish of your dear lady, whose humble servant I am very proud to be."

Rainouart stretched out his hand and clasped the hand of Simon.

"We will be brothers-in-arms," he vowed, "as we are brothers in service." Then he turned to his father.

"Sire," he said; "your son is your soldier till there be an end of the war and till the pope makes me a free man again. And then, by your leave, I will take my troth anew to the greenwood, and humbly pray my sweet love to forgive me."

The duke said nothing, for he had nothing pleasant to say to such vagaries. But Simon tugged at his russet beard, and muttered:

"I think she will forgive you."

XXV

CEPHISSUS

The dawn was as pink as a peach, and through the pellucid air the city of Athens looked her fairest. The Parthenon, topping her holy hill, glowed like amber in the young sunlight, showing the same fine lines of perfect symmetry to the nobles of France that it had shown to the Roman soldiers of Mummius and to the Athenians of the great war. Within the sanctuary the gold and ivory image of Athena, fashioned by Phidias, had given way to the pale face of Our Lady, Mother of the Holy Child, and the grandiloquent Latin of the mass rolled its volume through the hall that once had echoed to the sonorous Greek of the Palladian hymns. The gods had gone, great Pan was dead, Christ had arisen, and still the Parthenon in almost unaltered beauty crowned the Acropolis. But the chivalry of France paid little heed to the Parthenon or the past of Athens as they rode briskly out on that radiant morning to annihilate the Catalan Grand Company. Their thoughts were with the vivid present, with the pleasure of coming battle, with the pride of certain victory, with the promise of the swift return, flushed with triumph, to find praise and welcome smiling in their ladies' eyes. It was but the second day since the night of the ruined nuptials, but Baldwin was brisk on war business, and his chivalry and his fighting-men were quick to move. The foot-soldiers had taken the field for the march to Thebes on the previous day, and this day, this glorious day of peach-colored dawn, the duke and his knights were to ride to the undoing of the Catalan Grand Company.

The Catalan Grand Company had confirmed the menace of Ximenes, and justified Duke Baldwin's doubts by going over as one man to the cause of the Duchess of Thebes. But their defection did not trouble the bluff duke. On the contrary, it furnished him with a full-blooded excuse for exterminating the mutinous mercenaries and wiping out his debt to them with a wet sword. So he and his chivalry rode to their assured victory, and made their march a gala-day.

Simon had never seen a braver menace of war. The sunlight gleamed on coats of many-tinted silk, on armor rich with gilding, on shields whose gayly painted spaces were so many brave pages from the armorial of France. Iris was outvied. Cloth of gold and cloth of silver glittered; stuffs of flame color, sea color, corn color, blood color dazzled the day; even the Athenian eyes, inured to vivid pigments seen in full sunlight, ached in the play of hue. All the knights were clad as for a tournament, save that they did not carry on their helmets the huge and grotesque crests which made the mimic fight fantastic, for these, though skilfully fashioned of light wicker-work and painted leather, would have proved too cumbrous and too bulky in the hour of actual combat.

Duke Baldwin rode at the head of his knights, with his visor exalted, and his companions, the Knight of the Fish, the Knight of the Lizard, the Knight of the Griffin, knights of all conceivable creatures that blazoners and crest-builders had taken into their whimsical kingdom, rode in Duke Baldwin's train and cried their war-cries into the ears of a delighted audience. The Athenians, then as ever eager for new things, and rejoicing in show, lined the streets and applauded lustily as the pageant of war passed by. The knights rode to the fight as to a feast, full of mirth. On every side jest challenged laughter and laughter answered jest. Sir Guy, Sir Jaufre, Sir Ambrose, Sir Gaston, Sir Raymond made merry one with another, and blew kisses to such girls as had fair faces among the gazing throng. It was true that some lords were missing from Duke Baldwin's following. Andronicus Palæologus, pompous exile, had asserted that the quarrel was none for him to meddle with and had taken shipping for Nauplia; Demetrius of Epirus had stolen away by night to Thebes to lend such dignity as his name could give to the Catalan rally. But no one seemed to remember or to regret the fugitive or the traitor, and no one seemed to think any but mirthful thoughts or to speak other than mirthful words.

Simon marvelled somewhat at the knightly mirth. There was nothing so wonderful in the crushing of such an uproar as that of the Catalan Grand Company. Yet Simon's own spirits were high, and he found snatches of old songs bubbling from his lips as he rode close at hand to his master. Rainouart seemed once again what he had been before the fatal coming of Esclaramonde. Thanks to the herb of healing, thanks to his native health, he had wellnigh recovered from the wound that the ill-directed stroke of a woman had dealt him. What was of far more moment, he had wholly escaped from the spell of Esclaramonde's magic, and rode with clear eyes and clean spirit. If he were not now as blithe as his fellows, he had never displayed a noisy humor of mirth. But while the others carolled and babbled, he rode quietly with a bright smile on his face, for he thought of the girl in the greenwood, and all the world was fragrant with the perfume of the noble rose. His carriage cheered Duke Baldwin greatly, wherefore he rode lively enough at the head of his knights, and did not trouble himself much about the amorous folly of his son so long as that son rode in arms like a gallant gentleman against the enemy.

The peach tint of the dawn flushed into rose and glowed into gold as the morning grew, and soon the sky was all of the liveliest blue above the heads of Baldwin and his companions. They knew some hours of blithe riding through a blithe country, now open as they traversed the Attic plain, now enclosed as they came to the hilly places and fringed the forest--and here Simon looked wistfully at the wood, but Rainouart rode steadily with his gaze fixed straight ahead--and then again open as they began to enter the Theban plain. Here Duke Baldwin found his foot-soldiers encamped, and here he heard that the opposing forces had marched out of Thebes and taken up their position in an encampment on the plain to await the Athenian invaders. Here the knights made a halt for rest and repose, for the morning was still very young, with the air exceedingly cool and sweet. The horses were fed and tended, the knights ate and drank, but sparingly, as befits those about to give battle, and their brief leisure was as mirthful as their march. When all were refreshed, man and beast, the march was resumed, and a little time brought Duke Baldwin and his friends in full view of the enemy and of the destined battle-field.

Simon looked curiously at the stirring scene before him. A great space of land lay between the Athenian forces and their enemies--a space vividly green with young corn that flourished on the plain of Thebes as on all the plains of Greece. On the other side of that spreading area of soft shoots the men of the Catalan Grand Company were drawn up in open array of battle, with the gaudy banner of the Duchess of Thebes floating over their ranks side by side with their own flag and the treasonable pennon of Epirus. Simon marvelled on looking to see them waiting there so composedly for the formidable onslaught of the Frankish chivalry. The bowmen were resting by their strung bows as unconcernedly as if a holiday were toward, and the armored leaders moved hither and thither leisurely among the ranks. It seemed as if the following of Baldwin had but to spur only a few yards across the soft, bright corn to brush these foemen out of existence. Nine hundred of the finest knights in Greece, swathed in steel, rode with the Duke of Athens and filled the summer air with their war-cries, eager to sweep over the field and chastise the insolence of their contemptible enemies. Behind them now tramped a well-equipped army on foot, strongly armed, admirably marshalled, inured to war, and eager for the engagement.

Simon was puzzled if no one else was. The odds against the Catalan Grand Company showed tremendous, even when such reinforcements as were afforded by the adherents of the Duchess of Thebes were taken into account, while Demetrius of Epirus brought no more than his small personal following and the cheap dishonor of his name. It looked as if none might survive the skirmish to mount the gibbets which Duke Baldwin so uncompromisingly promised to the rebels. Suddenly an idea came into Simon's head, and he slapped his leg with satisfaction. That is it, he said to himself, convinced that he had found an answer to the problem that perplexed him. The dogs knew that they must die, one way or another, by sword or by rope, and they meant to make a good end of it, soldier-wise, and at bay. Something of pity stirred in his heart for the stout fellows so soon to be butchered and waiting so soldierly for the end. They were truculent ruffians, those Catalans, but at least they knew how to play a losing game with courage and dignity. Another little hour and how many of those bearded faces would show any hot blood in the cheeks? The fortune of war, Simon reflected, composedly, and settled himself in the saddle for the obliterating charge which he guessed must soon be made, for Duke Baldwin had reined in his horse, and with him the army halted, a splendid patch of steel and color upon the plain. Duke Baldwin turned in his saddle and smiled upon his chivalry, while he pointed to the Catalan Grand Company and the forces of the lady of Thebes.

"There lie the rebels," he shouted, his great voice rolling like a drum-call over his host, "and here ride we that shall wipe them out of the field. It is but poor sport I offer you, gentle friends, to slay the jacks of a jade, but it will soon be over, and we shall scour the land of Greece clean of these cozeners."

As he spoke he swung his sword forth from his scabbard, and held it stretched in menace against the enemy, while the knights behind him thundered cheer after cheer, and settled themselves firmly in their saddles for the charge across the shining plain. Baldwin lifted his great blade to heaven.

"Saint Denis for Athens!" he cried, and stuck his spurs into the sides of his mighty charger.

"Saint Denis for Athens!" echoed his chivalry at his heels, and in another moment the splendid mass of men-at-arms was in motion. Simon's spirits were at the top as he gave his horse the rein and felt the morning air stronger against his face. But he kept a watchful eye on the young prince who rode beside him, and it gladdened him to see that Rainouart sat so stiffly in his saddle and held his lance so well. "A plague upon love and lovers," he grumbled in his heart; "what have they to do with a gentleman-at-arms?" and then he had time to think no more for the swift exhilaration of the charge. On the knights came, Baldwin leading, the young Prince of Athens close behind him, and Simon by his side, the rest thundering in open order with levelled spears. A few minutes more now and the Catalan Grand Company would be very decisively disbanded. But even as Simon charged his horse caught a hoof in a hole, and, coming heavily on to its knees, shot Simon out of his stirrup, and Simon landed sprawling on the ground. Now Simon was a heavy man, and Simon, as befitted the knight of Florency, was in full armor, and Simon, though he tried his best, found it as hard to rise as if he were a capsized turtle. But Rainouart riding ahead saw his mishap, and, reining in his black horse, came back to Simon.

"Nay," cried Simon, "ride to victory, and leave me to shift."

But Rainouart would not have it so. He might be out of the first bright wave of battle, but he could not leave his brother-in-arms in distressful plight. And there was, indeed, but brief delay. Rainouart dismounting soon got Simon to his feet, and Simon mounted his horse, which was little the worse for its stumble, and together they spurred to catch up with the charging cavalry. But the time, short though it was, had allowed a great gap of green field to grow between the riding knights and their two pursuers, and it took some strenuous seconds to bring their horses' noses to the tails of their predecessors.

Even as they who had been in the vaward now at length joined themselves to the rear, suddenly Simon saw Duke Baldwin's great charger stagger and reel and plunge unaccountably, and the next moment Simon found that his own horse was striving to make its way through ground as muddy and pulpy as a swamp. Water was squelching and oozing and bubbling over his horse's fetlocks; the young prince's horse was in the like stress; and, looking rapidly to left and right, Simon could see that all the extending line of knights had found the same difficulty in the way of their progress. It is some ditch, Simon thought, which can soon be passed, and he urged his steed with a spur to a progress that became momentarily more difficult. Duke Baldwin was floundering and struggling in the ever-increasing bog, and Simon could hear him cursing furiously as he strove to advance. Simon's own horse and the horse of the prince were now knee-deep in the horrible morass in which by this time all the knights were floundering. They could, indeed, advance a little still, but every step was harder than the last, and every inch of way seemed to find no firmer earth, while black splashes of water spurted from the puddled soil at every pace, and little pools sucked and gurgled ominously round the legs of the frightened horses.

There must be dry land somewhere, Simon thought, too much bewildered by this singular obstacle to wonder how such a ditch as this could have remained unknown to the Athenian leader. Across the green corn he could see the Catalans still composedly standing at gaze, while on all sides of him now the heavily armed knights and the heavy horses were sinking deeper and deeper in the treacherous marsh. Duke Baldwin ahead was up to his horse's middle now in the clinging mud, and was vainly essaying with oaths and curses to urge the beast a little farther. Like flies glued in honey seemed all the chivalry of Athens, plunging and struggling to extricate themselves from the fatal fen, and then Simon saw how some of the men of the Catalan Grand Company began to move. First, the bowmen lifted their bows and drew arrow to ear, and then a cloud of shafts came over the entangled knights, who could neither advance nor retreat, but were limed helplessly in the imprisoning slime. Then swift Spanish soldiers came running nimbly towards them, picking their way easily over the sump in which the Athenians wallowed an inextricable mass of men and horses, and as the Spaniards ran the sunlight glittered on the long knives they carried in their hands.

In an instant of agony Simon realized that all was lost, that the flower of the Athenian army was snared in that mysterious marish, and that there was little chance for any man among them to come out alive. Already the Spanish knife-men were thick and busy among their victims, paddling easily where horse and armor sank, and dealing death wherever they came with their terrible knives. Already Duke Baldwin was down with twenty men upon him. Hardly a dozen yards away Simon saw the girlish face of Guy de Hainault for the first time writhen with rage. He had lifted his visor to see more clearly what had happened, and he wielded his sword in vain against his unreachable assailants, and then a dozen men were on him from behind, and a dozen knives met in his body, and he went down and Simon saw him no more. The black slush was everywhere reddening with blood, as knight after knight perished ingloriously, helpless to evade the stings that slew them, and unable to strike a good stroke in defence of his life and of Athens.

It all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that Simon caught himself staring at the bloody work about him in a kind of unconsciousness, a kind of indifference, such as a man might wear who came unexpectedly upon a puppet-show in a village square. Above him the sky, to which his eyes travelled unawares, shone as brightly blue as it had shone in the hours of their merry march, since the peach color of the dawn had faded. The bright Greek world was the same, and yet the bright Greek world was all different, a mud-stained, blood-stained slaughter-spot, where brave knights were being murdered. Then, in the midst of the butchery all about him, Simon thought suddenly of the greenwood and a girl with a face like a god, and of a noble youth who rode at his side and strove to force his way over the morass. Instantly a great resolve came into Simon's mind that he would save the boy Rainouart for the girl Argathona.