There was a pause of amazement as the two boys advanced to the high carved chair on which the Prince was seated--and Edward exclaimed, "Father, save Arthur's uncle!" "What means this, Edward?" demanded the Prince of Wales, somewhat sternly. "Go to your mother, boy--we cannot hear you now, and--" "I cannot go, father," replied the child, "till you have promised to save Arthur's uncle! He is wounded!--the traitors have wounded him!--and the French will take the Castle, and he will be slain! And Arthur loves him so much!" "Come here, Edward," said the Prince, remarking the flushed cheek and tearful eye of his son, "and tell me what this means." Edward obeyed, but without loosing his hold of his young friend's hand. "The man-at-arms is come, all heat and dust, on the poor drooping, jaded steed--and he said, the Knight would be slain, and the Castle taken, unless you would send him relief. It is Arthur's uncle that he loves so well." "Arthur's uncle?" repeated the Prince--and, turning his eyes on the suppliant figure, he said, "Arthur Lynwood! Speak, boy." "Oh, my Lord," said Arthur, commanding his voice with difficulty, "I would only pray you to send succour to my uncle at Chateau Norbelle, and save him from being murdered by Oliver de Clisson." It was a voice which boded little good to Arthur's suit that now spoke. "If it be Sir Eustace Lynwood, at Chateau Norbelle, of whom the young Prince speaks, he can scarce be in any strait, since the garrison is more than sufficient." The little page started to his feet, and, regarding the speaker with flashing eyes, exclaimed, "Hearken not to him, my Lord Prince! He is the cause of all the treachery!--he is the ruin and destruction of my uncle;--he has deceived you with his falsehoods!--and now he would be his death!" "How now, my young cousin!" said Clarenham, in a most irritating tone of indifference--"you forget in what presence you are." "I do not," replied Arthur, fiercely. "Before the Prince, Fulk Clarenham, I declare you a false traitor!--and, if you dare deny it, there lies my gloves!" Fulk only replied by a scornful laugh, and, addressing the Prince, said, "May I pray of your Grace not to be over severe with my young malapert relation." The Captal de Buch spoke: "You do not know what an adversary you have provoked, Fulk! The other day, I met my nephew, little Pierre, with an eye as black as the patch we used to wear in our young days of knight-errantry. 'What wars have you been in, Master Pierre?' I asked. It was English Arthur who had fought with him, for mocking at his talking of nothing but his uncle. But you need not colour, and look so abashed, little Englishman!--I bear no more malice than I hope Pierre does--I only wish I had as bold a champion! I remember thine uncle, if he is the youth to whom the Constable surrendered at Navaretta, and of whom we made so much." "Too much then, and too little afterwards," said old Sir John Chandos.