“MASTER SQUIRE,” said the principal man-at-arms of the garrison to Pierce Hardcastle, “is it known to you what this laidly dame’s practices be?” “I know her for a dame worthy of all honour and esteem,” returned the esquire, turning hastily round in wrath. He much disliked this man, a regular mercenary of the free lance description, a fellow of French or Alsatian birth, of middle age, much strength, and on account of a great gash and sideways twist of his snub nose always known as Tordu, and strongly suspected that he had been sent as a sort of spy or check on Sir Leonard Copeland and on himself. The man replied with a growl: “Ah ha! Sans doubt she makes her niggard fare seem dainty cakes to those under her art.” In fact the evident pleasure young Hardcastle took in the Lady Castellane’s society, the great improvement in his wound under her treatment, and the manner in which the serfs around came to ask her aid in their maladies, had excited the suspicion of the men-at-arms. They were older men, hardened and roughened, inclined to despise his youth, and to resent the orderly discipline of the household, which under Ridley went on as before, and the murmurs of Thora led to inquiries, answered after the exaggerated fashion of gossip. There were outcries about provisions and wine or ale, and shouts demanding more, and when Pierce declared that he would not have the lady insulted, there was a hoarse loud laugh. He was about to order Tordu as ringleader into custody, but Ridley said to him aside, “Best not, sir; his fellows will not lay a finger on him, and if we did so, there would be a brawl, and we might come by the worst.” So Pierce could only say, with all the force he could, “Bear in mind that Sir Leonard Copeland is lord here, and all miscourtesy to his lady is an offence to himself, which will be visited with his wrath.” The sneering laugh came again, and Tordu made answer, “Ay, ay, sir; she has bewitched you, and we’ll soon have him and you free.” Pierce was angered into flying at the man with his sword, but the other men came between, and Ridley held him back. “You are still a maimed man, sir. To be foiled would be worse than to let it pass.” “There, fellow, I’ll spare you, so you ask pardon of me and the lady.” Perhaps they thought they had gone too far, for there was a sulky growl that might pass for an apology, and Ridley’s counsel was decided that Pierce had better not pursue the matter. What had been said, however, alarmed him, and set him on the watch, and the next evening, when Hardcastle was walking along the cliffs beyond the castle, the lad who acted as his page came to him, with round, wondering eyes, “Sir,” said he, after a little hesitation, “is it sooth that the lady spake a spell over your arm?” “Not to my knowledge,” said Pierce smiling. “It might be without your knowledge,” said the boy. “They say it healed as no chirurgeon could have healed it, and by magic arts.”