“Bring forth the captive!” said he--“bring forth the captive, and give him an opportunity of escape! That, forsooth, were blind policy, and you may call me Englishman when I do aught so foolish. No, by St. Anthony’s head, had I my will the young Saxon churl should be in the deepest dungeon of Chas-Chateil till he rotted, if it were only to avenge ourselves for the heart of pride which made the father who begot him look down, as from an elevation, on better men than himself. I myself forget not his insolence when he was on the eve of departing from Mount Moreville, where he was a guest, when last summoned to embark with Cœur-de-Lion for Normandy. ‘Good Norman,’ said he, ‘I pray thee hold my stirrup while I mount;’ and when I showed some disinclination, he added, calmly, ‘Nay, sir, it misbecomes you not; albeit you have lands and living, and wear golden spurs as well as myself, you are still the descendant of one of the adventurers who fought for hire at Hastings: I am still the heir of the Icinglas.’” “Holy Woden!” exclaimed Richard de Moreville, with a sly laugh, which had its meaning, “and what answered you, sir knight? You drew your sword, or challenged him to mortal combat on the spot?” Sir Anthony changed colour, and hesitated. “No,” said he, at length, “I wished not to have the death of the husband of a de Moreville on my conscience, and I pardoned his insolence for his lady’s sake.” “And held his stirrup?” Sir Anthony did not reply, but turned away to avoid doing so; and a broad grin was on the Norman squire’s aquiline face. Meanwhile Pedro, unable to make the grooms comprehend his meaning, advanced to the head of the stubborn charger, looked in his face, muttered in his ear, led him a few paces by the rein, then turned his head from the sun, jabbering to the grooms as he did so what to them was unintelligible. Then he made a sign that he would mount, and as they lifted the boy to the charger’s back, Ayoub not only stood still and quiet, but immediately obeyed the touch of his heel, and walked quietly down among the trees that grew on the slope that led from the castle, and then returned at a gentle canter. All present stood amazed, but none more than Sir Anthony and Richard de Moreville. “By the saints!” cried the knight, forgetting in his wonder to mention his patron in particular, “this is marvellous to behold. I have ever deemed that boy more than mortal since he came so opportunely to my rescue.” “On my faith,” said the squire, “I believe that never has the like been seen since Alexander of Macedon mounted Bucephalus in spite of his heels and horns.” “It is magic,” exclaimed Hubert the Huntsman, in terror. “Nay, nay, Hubert lad,” said old Martin; “bearest thou not in mind that I said the fierce steed took kindly to the simple child from the first?”