CHAPTER XXXVI. HOW SIR NIGEL TOOK THE PATCH FROM HIS EYE.

Itwasacold,bleakmorninginthebeginningofMarch,andthemistwasdriftingindenserollingcloudsthroughthepassesoftheCantabrianmountains.TheCompany,whohadpassedthenightinashelteredgully,werealreadyastir,somecrowdingroundtheblazingfiresandothersrompingorleapingovereachother'sbacksfortheirlimbswerechilledandtheairbiting.Hereandthere,throughthedensehazewhichsurroundedthem,thereloomedouthugepinnaclesandjuttingbouldersofrock:whilehighabovetheseaofvaportheretowereduponegiganticpeak,withthepinkglowoftheearlysunshineuponitssnow-cappedhead.Thegroundwaswet,therocksdripping,thegrassandever-greenssparklingwithbeadsofmoistureyetthecampwasloudwithlaughterandmerriment,foramessengerhadriddeninfromtheprincewithwordsofheart-stirringpraiseforwhattheyhaddone,andwithordersthattheyshouldstillabideintheforefrontofthearmy. Roundoneofthefireswereclusteredfourorfiveoftheleadingmenofthearchers,cleaningtherustfromtheirweapons,andglancingimpatientlyfromtimetotimeatagreatpotwhichsmokedovertheblaze.TherewasAylwardsquattingcross-leggedinhisshirt,whilehescrubbedawayathischain-mailbrigandine,whistlingloudlythewhile.OnonesideofhimsatoldJohnston,whowasbusyintrimmingthefeathersofsomearrowstohislikingandontheotherHordleJohn,wholaywithhisgreatlimbsallasprawl,andhisheadpiecebalanceduponhisupliftedfoot.BlackSimonofNorwichcrouchedamidtherocks,crooninganEastlandballadtohimself,whilehewhettedhissworduponaflatstonewhichlayacrosshiskneeswhilebesidehimsatAlleyneEdricson,andNorbury,thesilentsquireofSirOliver,holdingouttheirchilledhandstowardsthecracklingfaggots. “Castonanotherculpon,John,andstirthebrothwiththysword-sheath,”growledJohnston,lookinganxiouslyforthetwentiethtimeatthereekingpot. “Bymyhilt!”criedAylward,“nowthatJohnhathcomebythisgreatransom,hewillscarceabidethefareofpoorarcherlads.Howsayyou,camarade?WhenyouseeHordleoncemore,therewillbenopennyaleandfatbacon,butGasconwinesandbakedmeatseverydayoftheseven.” “Iknownotaboutthat,”saidJohn,kickinghishelmetupintotheairandcatchingitinhishand.“Idobutknowthatwhetherthebrothbereadyorno,Iamabouttodipthisintoit.” “Itsimmersanditboils,”criedJohnston,pushinghishard-linedfacethroughthesmoke.Inaninstantthepothadbeenpluckedfromtheblaze,anditscontentshadbeenscoopedupinhalfadozensteelhead-pieces,whichwerebalancedbetwixttheirowners'knees,while,withspoonandgobbetofbread,theydevouredtheirmorningmeal. “Itisillweatherforbows,”remarkedJohnatlast,when,withalongsigh,hedrainedthelastdropfromhishelmet.“Mystringsareaslimpasacow'stailthismorning.” “Youshouldrubthemwithwaterglue,”quothJohnston.“Youremember,Samkin,thatitwaswetterthanthisonthemorningofCrecy,andyetIcannotcalltomindthattherewasaughtamisswithourstrings.” “Itisinmythoughts,”saidBlackSimon,stillpensivelygrindinghissword,“thatwemayhaveneedofyourstringseresundown.Idreamedoftheredcowlastnight.” “Andwhatisthisredcow,Simon?”askedAlleyne. “Iknownot,youngsirbutIcanonlysaythatontheeveofCadsand,andontheeveofCrecy,andontheeveofNogent,Idreamedofaredcowandnowthedreamhascomeuponmeagain,soIamnowsettingaverykeenedgetomyblade.” “Wellsaid,oldwar-dog!”criedAylward.“Bymyhilt!Ipraythatyourdreammaycometrue,fortheprincehathnotsetusoutheretodrinkbrothortogatherwhortle-berries.Onemorefight,andIamreadytohangupmybow,marryawife,andtaketothefirecorner.Buthownow,Robin?Whomisitthatyouseek?” “TheLordLoringcravesyourattendanceinhistent,”saidayoungarchertoAlleyne. Thesquireroseandproceededtothepavilion,wherehefoundtheknightseateduponacushion,withhislegscrossedinfrontofhimandabroadribbonofparchmentlaidacrosshisknees,overwhichhewasporingwithfrowningbrowsandpursedlips. “Itcamethismorningbytheprince'smessenger,”saidhe,“andwasbroughtfromEnglandbySirJohnFallislee,whoisnewcomefromSussex.Whatmakeyouofthisupontheouterside?” “Itisfairlyandclearlywritten,”Alleyneanswered,“anditsignifiesToSirNigelLoring,KnightConstableofTwynhamCastle,bythehandofChristopher,theservantofGodatthePrioryofChristchurch.” “SoIreadit,”saidSirNigel.“NowIprayyoutoreadwhatissetforthwithin.” Alleyneturnedtotheletter,and,ashiseyesresteduponit,hisfaceturnedpaleandacryofsurpriseandgriefburstfromhislips. “Whatthen?”askedtheknight,peeringupathimanxiously.“ThereisnoughtamisswiththeLadyMaryorwiththeLadyMaude?” “Itismybrother—mypoorunhappybrother!”criedAlleyne,withhishandtohisbrow.“Heisdead.” “BySaintPaul!Ihaveneverheardthathehadshownsomuchloveforyouthatyoushouldmournhimso.” “Yethewasmybrother—theonlykithorkinthatIhaduponearth.Mayhaphehadcausetobebitteragainstme,forhislandwasgiventotheabbeyformyupbringing.Alas!alas!andIraisedmystaffagainsthimwhenlastwemet!Hehasbeenslain—andslain,Ifear,amidstcrimeandviolence.” “Ha!”saidSirNigel.“Readon,Iprayyou.” “'Godbewiththee,myhonoredlord,andhavetheeinhisholykeepi