s of the
adventurers. The senseless body was thrown across the spare horse, the
four sprang to their saddles, and away they thundered with loose reins
and busy spurs through the swarming camp.

But confusion and disorder still reigned among the Spaniards for Sir
William Felton and his men had swept through half their camp, leaving
a long litter of the dead and the dying to mark their course. Uncertain
who were their attackers, and unable to tell their English enemies
from their newly-arrived Breton allies, the Spanish knights rode wildly
hither and thither in aimless fury. The mad turmoil, the mixture of
races, and the fading light, were all in favor of the four who alone
knew their own purpose among the vast uncertain multitude. Twice ere
they reached open ground they had to break their way through small
bodies of horses, and once there came a whistle of arrows and singing of
stones about their ears; but, still dashing onwards, they shot out
from among the tents and found their own comrades retreating for the
mountains at no very great distance from them. Another five minutes of
wild galloping over the plain, and they were all back in their gorge,
while their pursuers fell back before the rolling of drums and blare of
trumpets, which seemed to proclaim that the whole army of the prince was
about to emerge from the mountain passes.

"By my soul! Nigel," cried Sir Oliver, waving a great boiled ham over
his head, "I have come by something which I may eat with my truffles! I
had a hard fight for it, for there were three of them with their mouths
open and the knives in their hands, all sitting agape round the table,
when I rushed in upon them. How say you, Sir William, will you not try
the smack of the famed Spanish swine, though we have but the brook water
to wash it down?"

"Later, Sir Oliver," answered the old soldier, wiping his grimed face.
"We must further into the mountains ere we be in safety. But what have
we here, Nigel?"

"It is a prisoner whom I have taken, and in sooth, as he came from the
royal tent and wears the royal arms upon his jupon, I trust that he is
the King of Spain."

"The King of Spain!" cried the companions, crowding round in amazement.

"Nay, Sir Nigel," said Felton, peering at the prisoner through the
uncertain light, "I have twice seen Henry of Transtamare, and certes
this man in no way resembles him."

"Then, by the light of heaven! I will ride back for him," cried Sir
Nigel.

"Nay,