him and
wiped his lips with the dawnings of a smile upon his ruddy face.

"It was not this Englishman," he said, and a cheer burst from the
Gascons, "nor was it this bastard Frenchman," he added. "To neither of
them did I surrender."

There was a hush of surprise.

"To whom then, sir?" asked the Prince.

The King looked slowly round. "There was a devil of a yellow horse,"
said he. "My poor palfrey went over like a skittle-pin before a ball. Of
the rider I know nothing save that he bore red roses on a silver
shield. Ah! by Saint Denis, there is the man himself, and there his
thrice-accursed horse!"

His head swimming, and moving as if in a dream, Nigel found himself the
center of the circle of armed and angry men.

The Prince laid his hand upon his shoulder. "It is the little cock of
Tilford Bridge," said he. "On my father's soul, I have ever said that
you would win your way. Did you receive the King's surrender?"

"Nay, fair lord, I did not receive it."

"Did you hear him give it?"

"I heard, sir, but I did not know that it was the King. My master Lord
Chandos had gone on, and I followed after."

"And left him lying. Then the surrender was not complete, and by the
laws of war the ransom goes to Denis de Morbecque, if his story be
true."

"It is true," said the King. "He was the second."

"Then the ransom is yours, Denis. But for my part I swear by my father's
soul that I had rather have the honor this Squire has gathered than all
the richest ransoms of France."

At these words spoken before that circle of noble warriors Nigel's heart
gave one great throb, and he dropped upon his knee before the Prince.
"Fair lord, how can I thank you?" he murmured. "These words at least are
more than any ransom."

"Rise up!" said the smiling Prince, and he smote with his sword upon
his shoulder. "England has lost a brave Squire, and has gained a gallant
knight. Nay, linger not, I pray! Rise up, Sir Nigel!"

XXVII. HOW THE THIRD MESSENGER CAME TO COSFORD

Two months have passed, and the long slopes of Hindhead are russet with
the faded ferns--the fuzzy brown pelt which wraps the chilling earth.
With whoop and scream the wild November wind sweeps over the great
rolling downs, tossing the branches of the Cosford beeches, and rattling
at the rude latticed windows. The stout old knight of Duplin, grown even
a little stouter, with whiter beard to fringe an ever redder face, sits
as of yore at the head of his own