“I will burn a candle,” said Bertrand d'Aiguerra, “to any god of luck who will send that caitiff where he gets himself killed. If he were not one of us he would not be such a nuisance. His mercenaries will be the ruin of us. The people were touchy enough before, but now they begin to think we are all birds of the same black feather.” “He is only half Auvergnais,” objected Savaric. “The other half is Sicilian, I believe. A man cannot be half a gentleman, can he? I will admit that Biterres desires to live like a gentleman,--according to his own ideas of one. He has not been the same man since he was taken by the Moors. He was never honest, but that seemed to warp his nature as well as his body. He learned things that it does no man any good to know.” “Let us hope that Saint Patrick will dispose of him for the good of his Irish,” remarked Enrique de Montfaucon. “They say that the Plantagenet will do no more than give letters patent to any Norman adventurer who takes up Dermot's cause. I think he has his hands full with his own sons.” Ranulph listened to this conversation with interest. The ill-famed leader of mercenaries had aspired to the hand of Lady Philippa while she was yet a child--and had been brusquely dismissed by her father. He lived now by hiring himself and his troops to any ruler who had a war on hand and would pay his price. In peaceful intervals they lived as they could. The Count was talking to Gualtier Giffard about the Irish venture. “If the Normans rule Ireland,” he observed, “your fortunes may improve. A grant of land there might be worth your while.” The young knight met the Count's searching glance fearlessly. “I would not take it,” he answered. “Dermot lost his realm by his own fault. There is no honor in serving him.” “Ah,” said the Count with a quizzical lift of the eyebrow, “in that case you are very right.” Ranulph often acted as an unofficial unrecognized envoy in state matters, and it did not surprise him when he received a message from King Henry to the effect that he was to meet the monarch at Montfaucon after the conference. Peirol, who knew every mile of the country, was to take the pigeons thither for the tournament and be Ranulph's guide. It was altogether a very pleasant prospect for perfect summer weather.