The white horse had regained his
feet and stood whinnying gently as he looked down on his prostrate
master. A heavy blow, half broken by his sword, had beaten him
down and left a great raw bruise upon his forehead. But a stream
gurgled through the gorge, and a capful of water dashed over his
face brought the senses back to the injured man. He was a mere
stripling, with the delicate features of a woman, and a pair of
great violet-blue eyes which looked up presently with a puzzled
stare into Nigel's face.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Ah yes! I call you to mind. You are
the young Englishman who chased me on the great yellow horse. By
our Lady of Rocamadour whose vernicle is round my neck! I could
not have believed that any horse could have kept at the heels of
Charlemagne so long. But I will wager you a hundred crowns,
Englishman, that I lead you over a five-mile course."
"Nay," said Nigel, "we will wait till you can back a horse ere we
talk of racing it. I am Nigel of Tilford, of the family of
Loring, a squire by rank and the son of a knight. How are you
called, young sir?"
"I also am a squire by rank and the son of a knight. I am Raoul
de la Roche Pierre de Bras, whose father writes himself Lord of
Grosbois, a free vavasor of the noble Count of Toulouse, with the
right of fossa and of furca, the high justice, the middle and the
low.
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