CHAPTER XVIII. HOW SIR NIGEL LORING PUT A PATCH UPON HIS EYE.

ItwasonthemorningofFriday,theeight-and-twentiethdayofNovember,twodaysbeforethefeastofSt.Andrew,thatthecogandhertwoprisoners,afterawearytackinguptheGirondeandtheGaronne,droppedanchoratlastinfrontofthenoblecityofBordeaux.Withwonderandadmiration,Alleyne,leaningoverthebulwarks,gazedattheforestofmasts,theswarmofboatsdartinghitherandthitheronthebosomofthebroadcurvingstream,andthegraycrescent-shapedcitywhichstretchedwithmanyatowerandminaretalongthewesternshore.Neverhadheinhisquietlifeseensogreatatown,norwasthereinthewholeofEngland,saveLondonalone,onewhichmightmatchitinsizeorinwealth.HerecamethemerchandiseofallthefaircountrieswhicharewateredbytheGaronneandtheDordogne—theclothsofthesouth,theskinsofGuienne,thewinesoftheMedoc—tobeborneawaytoHull,Exeter,Dartmouth,BristolorChester,inexchangeforthewoolsandwoolfelsofEngland.HeretoodweltthosefamoussmeltersandwelderswhohadmadetheBordeauxsteelthemosttrustyuponearth,andcouldgiveatempertolanceortoswordwhichmightmeandearlifetoitsowner.Alleynecouldseethesmokeoftheirforgesreekingupintheclearmorningair.Thestormhaddieddownnowtoagentlebreeze,whichwaftedtohisearsthelong-drawnstirringbugle-callswhichsoundedfromtheancientramparts. “Hola,monpetit!”saidAylward,cominguptowherehestood.“Thouartasquirenow,andlikeenoughtowinthegoldenspurs,whileIamstillthemaster-bowman,andmaster-bowmanIshallbide.IdarescarcewagmytonguesofreelywithyouaswhenwetrampedtogetherpastWilverleyChase,elseImightbeyourguidenow,forindeedIknoweveryhouseinBordeauxasafriarknowsthebeadsonhisrosary.” “Nay,Aylward,”saidAlleyne,layinghishanduponthesleeveofhiscompanion'sfrayedjerkin,“youcannotthinkmesothrallastothrowasideanoldfriendbecauseIhavehadsomesmallshareofgoodfortune.Itakeitunkindthatyoushouldhavethoughtsuchevilofme.” “Nay,mongar.'Twasbutaflightshottoseeifthewindblewsteady,thoughIwerearoguetodoubtit.” “Why,hadInotmetyou,Aylward,attheLynhurstinn,whocansaywhereIhadnowbeen!Certes,IhadnotgonetoTwynhamCastle,norbecomesquiretoSirNigel,normet——”Hepausedabruptlyandflushedtohishair,butthebowmanwastoobusywithhisownthoughtstonoticehisyoungcompanion'sembarrassment. “Itwasagoodhostel,thatofthe'PiedMerlin,'”heremarked.“Bymytenfingerbones!whenIhangbowonnailandchangemybrigandineforatunic,Imightdoworsethantakeoverthedameandherbusiness.” “Ithought,”saidAlleyne,“thatyouwerebetrothedtosomeoneatChristchurch.” “Tothree,”Aylwardansweredmoodily,“tothree.IfearImaynotgobacktoChristchurch.ImightchancetoseehotterserviceinHampshirethanIhaveeverdoneinGascony.Butmarkyounowyonderloftyturretinthecentre,whichstandsbackfromtheriverandhathabroadbanneruponthesummit.Seetherisingsunflashesfulluponitandsparklesonthegoldenlions.'TistheroyalbannerofEngland,crossedbytheprince'slabel.TherehedwellsintheAbbeyofSt.Andrew,wherehehathkepthiscourttheseyearsback.Besideitistheminsterofthesamesaint,whohaththetownunderhisveryspecialcare.” “Andhowofyongrayturretontheleft?” “'TisthefaneofSt.Michael,asthatupontherightisofSt.Remi.There,too,abovethepoopofyondernief,youseethetowersofSaintCroixandofPeyBerland.Markalsothemightyrampartswhicharepiercedbythethreewater-gates,andsixteenotherstothelandwardside.” “Andhowisit,goodAylward,thattherecomessomuchmusicfromthetown?Iseemtohearahundredtrumpets,allcallinginchorus.” “Itwouldbestrangeelse,seeingthatallthegreatlordsofEnglandandofGasconyarewithinthewalls,andeachwouldhavehistrumpeterblowasloudashisneighbor,lestitmightbethoughtthathisdignityhadbeenabated.Mafoi!theymakeasmuchlousterasaScotcharmy,whereeverymanfillshimselfwithgirdle-cakes,andsitsupallnighttoblowuponthetoodle