Of
such a person the high Lord of Pons could take no notice, and so
he pursued his inexorable way, his arrogant eyes looking out into
the distance and his thoughts set intently upon the maiden of St.
Jean. He was dimly aware that the little crazy man in the
undershirt ran a long way beside him in his stockings, begging,
imploring and arguing.
"Just one hour, most fair sir, just one hour at the longest, and a
poor Squire of England shall ever hold himself your debtor! Do
but condescend to rein your horse until my harness comes back to
me! Will you not stoop to show me some small deed of arms? I
implore you, fair sir, to spare me a little of your time and a
handstroke or two ere you go upon your way!"
Lord de Pons motioned impatiently with his gauntleted hand, as one
might brush away an importunate fly, but when at last Nigel became
desperate in his clamor he thrust his spurs into his great
war-horse, and clashing like a pair of cymbals he thundered off
through the forest. So he rode upon his majestic way, until two
days later he was slain by Lord Reginald Cobham in a field near
Weybridge.
When after a long chase Aylward secured the spare horse and
brought it back, he found his master seated upon a fallen tree,
his face buried in his hands and his mind clouded with humiliation
and grief. Nothing was said, for the matter was beyond words, and
so in moody silence they rode upon their way.
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