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! Manny! George for
England!" rose the deep-throated bay, and ever the gallant
counter-cry: "A Chargny! A Chargny! Saint Denis for France!"
thundered amid the clash and thudding of the battle.
Such was the vague whirling memory still lingering in Nigel's mind
when at last the mists cleared away from it and he found himself
weak but clear on the low couch in the corner turret. Beside him,
crushing lavender betwixt his rough fingers and strewing it over
floor and sheets, was Aylward the archer. His longbow leaned at
the foot of the bed, and his steel cap was balanced on the top of
it, while he himself, sitting in his shirt sleeves, fanned off the
flies and scattered the fragrant herbs over his helpless master.
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