sy for
which he became famous in history, the Prince bent the knee before the
lady, and taking her by the hand, led her to a seat of honour beside
himself, asking her of herself and her story, and listening with
respectful attention to every word she spoke.

Gaston then stood forward and told again his tale of Raymond's capture,
and deep murmurs of indignation ran through the hall as he did so. The
veins swelled upon the Prince's forehead as he heard the tale, and his
eyes emitted sparks of fierce light as they flashed from time to time
upon the trembling prisoner.

"Methinks we have heard enough, gentlemen," said he at length, as
Gaston's narrative drew to a close.

"Marshal, bring hither your prisoner.

"This man, gentlemen, is the hero of these brave deeds of valour of
which we have been hearing. This is the man who dares to waylay and
torture English subjects to wring from them treasure and gold; the man
who dares to bring this vilely-won wealth to purchase with it the favour
of England's King; the man who wages war on foreign soil with the
friends of England, and treacherously sells them into the hand of
England's foe; who deals with them as we have heard he dealt and would
have dealt with Raymond de Brocas had not Providence worked almost a
miracle in his defence. This is the man who, together with his father,
drove from this very house the lawful owner, because that she was a
gentle, tender woman, and was at that moment alone and unable to defend
herself from them. This is the man who is not ashamed to call himself
the master of Basildene, and who has striven to compass by the foulest
ends the death of the true owner of the property -- though Raymond de
Brocas braved the terrors of the Black Death to tend and soothe the last
dying agonies of that man's father. This is the man who would wed by
force this fair maiden, and strove to deceive her by the foulest tricks
and jugglery. Say, gentlemen, what is the desert of this miscreant? What
doom shall we award him as the recompense of his past life?"

A score of hideous suggestions were raised at once, and the miserable
Peter Sanghurst shook in his shoes as he saw the fierce, relentless
faces of the soldiers making a ring round him. Those were cruel days,
despite the softening influence of their vaunted chivalry, and the face
of the Prince was stern and black. It was plain that he had been deeply
roused by the story he had heard.

But Joan was there, and she was