again to the battlements, he could see the enemy approaching,
could distinguish the banner of Clisson, and count the long array of
men-at-arms and crossbow-men as they pursued their way through the
bright green landscape, now half hidden by a rising ground, now slowly
winding from its summit.

At last they came to the foot of the slope. Gaston had already marked
the start and pause, which showed when they first recognized the
English standard; and there was another stop, while they ranged
themselves in order, and, after a moment's interval, a man-at-arms rode
forward towards the postern door, looked earnestly at it, and called
"Sanchez!"

"Shoot him dead!" said Gaston to an English crossbow-man who stood
beside him; "it is the villain Tristan, on poor Ferragus."

The arblast twanged, and Tristan fell, while poor Ferragus, after
starting violently, trotted round to the well-known gate, and stood
there neighing. "Poor fellow!" said Gaston, "art calling Brigliador? I
would I knew he had sped well."

The French, dismayed by the reception of their guide, held back; but
presently a pursuivant came forward from their ranks, and, after his
trumpet had been sounded, summoned, in the name of the good Knight,
Messire Oliver de Clisson, the garrison of Chateau Norbelle to
surrender it into his hands, as thereto commissioned by his grace,
Charles, King of France.

The garrison replied by another trumpet, and Gaston, standing forth
upon the battlements, over the gateway, demanded to speak with Sir
Oliver de Clisson, and to have safe-conduct to and from the open space
at the foot of the slope. This being granted, the drawbridge was
lowered, and the portcullis raised. Ferragus entered, and went
straight to his own stall; and Gaston d'Aubricour came forth in
complete armour, and was conducted by the pursuivant to the leader of
the troop. Sir Oliver de Clisson, as he sat on horseback with the
visor of his helmet raised, had little or nothing of the appearance of
the courteous Knight of the period. His features were not, perhaps,
originally as harsh and ill-formed as those of his compeer, Bertrand du
Guesclin, but there was a want of the frank open expression and
courteous demeanour which so well suited the high chivalrous temper of
the great Constable of France. They were dark and stern, and the loss
of an eye, which had been put out by an arrow, rendered him still more
hard-favoured. He was, in fact, a man soured by early