“Art thou so warm for a fray?” said the stranger. “It is the better; thou hast gentle blood within thee, although thy first address did belie it wofully. What if I were to lead thee to a fray, where an estate shall be had for the buckling on of thy harness, and an earldom shall be the requital of every blow? How sayest thou, Reginald d’Arennes? Is not prince’s favour more worth the winning than lady’s love? and is not the possession that is the guerdon of service in field more honourable than the dower that is sued for on bended knee?” Reginald seemed again frozen into inanimation. Alike ignorant of the person who spoke to him, and of the purport of what he spoke, he had recourse to his never-failing response, “I doubt.” Robin again stepped forward with his ballad admonition, which I shall again endeavour to modernize, “albeit unused to the rhyming mood.” ’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in fair greenwood, When birds are blithely singing; ’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in foughten field, When blows are bravely ringing. “On to the fight!” saith King Arthure, “Accurst be he that flies! Riches and fame to him that lives! And bliss to him that dies! Why lingerest thou, Childe Celadon?” Out spoke that cunning knave, “The brightest gift thy crown can give, What boots it in the grave!” The very prudent and natural suggestion of “Childe Celadon” seemed to have a marvellous effect upon Reginald, and would probably have influenced his reply, had not the attention of his interrogator been called off by another circumstance. To this we must also attribute the safety of the songster’s neck, which, had not this seasonable interruption taken place, would have been ill worth a minute’s purchase. A messenger had suddenly arrived, and been conducted into the presence of their unknown captor. He appeared to have come from a long distance; and the disordered state of his dress, together with the fatigue which was apparent on his pale countenance, sufficiently proved that he had not spared whip or spur on the journey. He delivered to the chief the letters of which he was the bearer, and retired in silence. The chief broke open the packet; anxiety was strongly marked on his countenance; yet his features changed not, as he read his advices: it was difficult to form a conjecture whether he was rejoiced or displeased by their contents. He called to him his esquire. They held a brief conference apart. “Cold news, Eustace! The Flemings have been beaten! The slaves fled as the first weapon leaped from its sheath. De Lucy’s powers are drawn together, and Bohun hath Leicester prisoner.” “Then it were well to seek shelter while the tempest is yet coming on. It will blow a fierce wind ere long!”