a, where the Teutonic knights
waged ceaseless battle with the Lithuanian heathen, could he hope to
find his heart's desire. But money and high knightly fame were needed
ere a man could go upon the northern crusade, and ten years were yet
to pass ere Nigel should look from the battlements of Marienberg on
the waters of the Frische Haff, or should endure the torture of the hot
plate when bound to the Holy Woden stone of Memel. Meanwhile, he chafed
his burning soul out through the long seasons of garrison life in
Brittany, broken only by one visit to the chateau of the father of
Raoul, when he carried to the Lord of Grosbois the news of how his son
had fallen like a gallant gentleman under the gateway of La Brohiniere.

And then, then at last, when all hope was well-nigh dead in his heart,
there came one glorious July morning which brought a horseman bearing
a letter to the Castle of Vannes, of which Nigel now was seneschal. It
contained but few words, short and clear as the call of a war-trumpet.
It was Chandos who wrote. He needed his Squire at his side, for his
pennon was in the breeze once more. He was at Bordeaux. The Prince was
starting at once for Bergerac, whence he would make a great raid into
France. It would not end without a battle. They had sent word of their
coming, and the good French King had promised to be at great pains to
receive them. Let Nigel hasten at once. If the army had left, then let
him follow after with all speed. Chandos had three other squires, but
would very gladly see his fourth once again, for he had heard much of
him since he parted, and nothing which he might not have expected to
hear of his father's son. Such was the letter which made the summer sun
shine brighter and the blue sky seem of a still fairer blue upon that
happy morning in Vannes.

It is a weary way from Vannes to Bordeaux. Coastwise ships are hard to
find, and winds blow north when all brave hearts would fain be speeding
south. A full month has passed from the day when Nigel received his
letter before he stood upon the quay-side of the Garonne amid the
stacked barrels of Gascon wine and helped to lead Pommers down the
gang-planks. Not Aylward himself had a worse opinion of the sea than
the great yellow horse, and he whinnied with joy as he thrust his muzzle
into his master's outstretched hand, and stamped his ringing hoofs upon
the good firm cobblestones. Beside him, slapping his tawny shoulder in
encouragement, was the le