d chronicler in his "Gestes du Sieur Nigel" has bewailed his
broken narrative, which rose from the fact that out of thirty-one years
of warfare no less than seven were spent by his hero at one time or
another in the recovery from his wounds or from those illnesses which
arose from privation and fatigue. Here at the very threshold of his
career, on the eve of a great enterprise, this very fate befell him.

Stretched upon a couch in a low-roofed and ill-furnished chamber, which
looks down from under the machicolated corner turret upon the inner
court of the Castle of Calais, he lay half-unconscious and impotent,
while great deeds were doing under his window. Wounded in three places,
and with his head splintered by the sharp pommel of the Ferret's mace,
he hovered betwixt life and death, his shattered body drawing him
downward, his youthful spirit plucking him up.

As in some strange dream he was aware of that deed of arms within the
courtyard below. Dimly it came back to his memory afterwards the sudden
startled shout, the crash of metal, the slamming of great gates, the
roar of many voices, the clang, clang, clang, as of fifty lusty smiths
upon their anvils, and then at last the dwindling of the hubbub, the
low groans and sudden shrill cries to the saints, the measured murmur of
many voices, the heavy clanking of armored feet.

Sometime in that fell struggle he must have drawn his weakened body as
far as the narrow window, and hanging to the iron bars have looked down
on the wild scene beneath him. In the red glare of torches held from
windows and from roof he saw the rush and swirl of men below, the ruddy
light shining back from glowing brass and gleaming steel. As a wild
vision it came to him afterward, the beauty and the splendor, the flying
lambrequins, the jeweled crests, the blazonry and richness of surcoat
and of shield, where sable and gules, argent and vair, in every
pattern of saltire, bend or chevron, glowed beneath him like a drift of
many-colored blossoms, tossing, sinking, stooping into shadow, springing
into light. There glared the blood-red gules of Chandos, and he saw
the tall figure of his master, a thunderbolt of war, raging in the
van. There too were the three black chevrons on the golden shield which
marked the noble Manny. That strong swordsman must surely be the royal
Edward himself, since only he and the black-armored swift-footed youth
at his side were marked by no symbol of heraldry. "Manny! Ma