The fields had long been untilled. Commerce was
dead. From Rennes in the east to Hennebon in the west, and from
Dinan in the north to Nantes in the south, there was no spot where
a man's life or a woman's honor was safe. Such was the land, full
of darkness and blood, the saddest, blackest spot in Christendom,
into which Knolles and his men were now advancing.
But there was no sadness in the young heart of Nigel, as he rode
by the side of Knolles at the head of a clump of spears, nor did
it seem to him that Fate had led him into an unduly arduous path.
On the contrary, he blessed the good fortune which had sent him
into so delightful a country, and it seemed to him as he listened
to dreadful stories of robber barons, and looked round at the
black scars of war which lay branded upon the fair faces of the
hills, that no hero of romances or trouveur had ever journeyed
through such a land of promise, with so fair a chance of knightly
venture and honorable advancement.
The Red Ferret was one deed toward his vow. Surely a second, and
perhaps a better, was to be found somewhere upon this glorious
countryside. He had borne himself as the others had in the
sea-fight, and could not count it to his credit where he had done
no more than mere duty. Something beyond this was needed for such
a deed as could be laid at the feet of the Lady Mary. But surely
it was to be found here in fermenting war-distracted Brittany.
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