Then Knollys, in light harness, came down into the courtyard, and with him a tall man in black armour, the vizor of whose basinet was closed. Three men-at-arms followed them. No one spoke. They mounted their horses. The porter was unbarring the gate. The horse of the man in black armour grew restless, striking the stones with one fore-hoof. Knollys laughed. “Like master, like horse! Where is that page of yours, friend Godamar?” The voice that answered was muffled by the helmet. “I wait, sir, I wait.” A door opened somewhere, and a figure came out into the torchlight—the figure of a slim lad wrapped in a green cloak. He wore a steel cap, with a hood of chain mail, and the scabbard of a sword knocked against his neat legs. “Late, ever late, Master Bertrand!” The page ran to the pad, mounted lightly, and put himself beside the man in the black armour. “Pardon, lording, pardon.” “Boy, did I not chasten you the very first day we met!” They rode out through the gate and were met at the barrier by a man wrapped up in a black cloak and hood. A second figure stood at a little distance, a figure that leant upon a quarter-staff. Knollys bent low in the saddle. “Walworth?” “Walworth it is.” “Good.” “I come with you to Ludgate, and yonder is your guide.” They filed along the silent streets, Walworth walking beside Knollys’ horse, the black knight and his page riding together, Cavendish, the men-at-arms, and the archers following. The guide, a bearded fellow in a brown smock and rough woollen stockings and cow-hide shoes, tramped along with his staff over his shoulder. There was no parleying at Ludgate. Walworth went forward, and the gate opened instantly to let them through. As they passed under the arch they saw Walworth standing in the doorway of the guardroom, but he did not speak or move. Some fifty yards beyond the gate Knollys called the guide and an archer to him. “Lead the way, Jack. We follow.” The archer had had his order, and walked with his bow strung and an arrow ready. Knollys held back, letting the black knight and the page go forward. He waited for Cavendish, and spoke to him behind his hand. “Friend, we shall be thanked for knowing that we are not wanted. Let them talk—let them talk.” It was a still night, with hundreds of stars shining, silver points in sable velvet. The man in black and the page rode side by side, the archer and the guide some twenty paces ahead of them, Knollys and Cavendish the same distance behind. The man in black was the first to speak. “Isoult, it was not I who planned this mummery.” She held up a warning hand. “Ssst, lording, am I not Bertrand, your page, and we ride to take ship for France?” “No, by God, you are she who——” “Be careful, be careful!” He brought his horse close to hers, so that they rode knee to knee. “I’ll put my vizor up. There’s no danger for the moment.” “Speak low, Fulk.” “The horse’s hoofs will smother it. Isoult, did they threaten you?” “Threaten?”