ch were conspicuous in the centre of
the camp. Within, it was completely lined with silk, embroidered with
the various devices of the Prince: the lions of England--the lilies of
France--the Bohemian ostrich-plume, with its humble motto, the white
rose, not yet an emblem of discord--the blue garter and the red cross,
all in gorgeous combination--a fitting background, as it were, on which
to display the chivalrous groups seen in relief against it.

At the upper end was placed a long table for the Prince and his guests,
and here Sir Reginald took his seat, with many a hearty welcome from
his friends and companions in arms, while Gaston led his comrades to
the lower end, where Squires and pages were waiting for the provisions
brought in by the servants, which they were to carry to their Knights.
Gaston was soon engaged in conversation with his acquaintance, to some
of whom he introduced Eustace and Leonard, but the former found far
more interesting occupation in gazing on the company seated at the
upper table.

The Black Prince himself occupied the centre, his brother John at his
left hand, and at his right, a person whom both this post of honour and
the blazonry of his surcoat marked out as the dethroned King of
Castile. Pedro the Cruel had not, however, the forbidding countenance
which imagination would ascribe to him; his features were of the fair
and noble type of the old royal Gothic race of Spain; he had a
profusion of flaxen hair, and large blue eyes, rather too prominent,
and but for his receding forehead, and the expression of his lips, he
would have been a handsome man of princely mien. Something, too, there
was of fear, something of a scowl; he seemed to shrink from the open
and manly demeanour of Edward, and to turn with greater ease to
converse with John, who, less lofty in character than his brother,
better suited his nature.

There, too, Eustace beheld the stalwart form and rugged features of Sir
John Chandos; the slender figure and dark sparkling southern face of
the Captal de Buch; the rough joyous boon-companion visage of Sir Hugh
Calverly, the free-booting warrior; the youthful form of the young
step-son of the Prince, Lord Thomas Holland; the rude features of the
Breton Knight, Sir Oliver de Clisson, soon to be the bitterest foe of
the standard beneath which he was now fighting. Many were there whose
renown had charmed the ears of the young Squire of Lynwood Keep, and he
looked on the scene with th