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There is a little hostelrie in the village of Merk-Braine,
which bears the marks to this day of the most extreme antiquity;
and which, if it be not the same that offered hospitality to travellers
in the days of Philip Augustus — those glorious days of
old knight-errantry! — occupies at least the same position, and
discharges the same functions now, as did its scarcely ruder
prototype long centuries ago.

It was, at the period of which I write, a wretched clay-built
hut, with unglazed lattices; a ragged porch of old worm-eaten
timber; a bush, or dray branch rather, over the door; and a
broken flagon suspended from a pole at the gable, to indicate
to passers-by the character of the tenement. Uninviting, however,
as was the exterior of the building, and unpromising of
better cheer within, so rude were the accommodations of the
age, and so threatening the aspect of the evening — for it was
autumn, and the equinoctial storm, which had for some time
past been brewing, seemed now about to burst in earnest —
that an acclamation of pleasure rose to the lips of the leader
of a little party of horse, as he drew in his bridle at the door,
and shouted for the hostler

He was a tall and powerful man, of some six or eight and
thirty years, with a bold, manly countenance, sun-burnt and
darkened by exposure to all weathers; a full, well-opened eye,
of a bright sparkling blue, and a quantity of close-curled auburn
locks clustering round his temples. His beard and mustaches—
for he wore both — were considerable darker than his hair;

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but the latter were so small and closely trimmed, as to detract
nothing from the effect of his well-cut firm mouth, which with
his ample brow, was decidedly the finest feature of his face.
His dress was the superb attire of a baron of that day in his
complete war-harness, except that he wore on his head only a
low cap of black velvet, trimmed round the brim with ermine,
while his casque was suspended from the saddle-bow of his
principal attendant. He was then sheathed from the throat
downward, in panoply of palated Milan steel, polished till it
glanced to every beam of light like a Venetian mirror; yet it
glanced not with the cold lustre of plain burnished iron; for in
the tempering of the metal, it had been wrought to a rich, purplish
blue, resembling not a little the finest modern enamel,
and was moreover engrailed, to use the technical term, with
threads of golden wire, so exquisitely welded, in patterns of
rare arabesque, into the harder steel, that the two substances
were perfectly incorporated. It must not be supposed, however,
that the whole of this superb suit was exposed to the
sunshine, which, reflected from its surface, would have been
intolerable to the wearer, or to the rain, which would, ere long,
have dimmed its polish; nothing, in fact, was visible of the
armor, except the gorget defending the neck, the brassards,
vantbraces, and gauntlets on the arms, and the splents covering
the legs from the knee downward; for all the chest and thighs
of the rider were clad, above the mail, in a surcoat, or loose
frock, of fine white Flanders cloth, fringed with deep bullion,
and having a chained dragon — the well-known cognizance of
the counts of Tankarville — emblazoned on the breast, on thick
embroideries of gold. The splendid warrior, however, carried
no offensive weapon, with the exception of a richly-mounted
dagger at his girdle; nor was he horsed on his ponderous
charger, but on a slight and delicate Arabian, of a deep iron
gray, whose springy limbs and slender pasterns would have

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seemed utterly inadequate to bear the weight of so large a man
sheathed in so ponderous a harness, had not its wild, large eye,
its red, expanded nostril, and its proud, tremulous snort, as it
chafed against the curb, proclaimed it full of the indomitable
spirit of its desert sires. His attendants were three in number.
An old dark veteran, with hair as white as snow, but with a
ruddy, sun-burnt face, radiant with health and animation —
who, mounted on a strong, black charger, bore, in addition to his
own accoutrements, his master's lance and helmet. The other
two were ordinary men-at-arms of the period; armed indeed
with unusual exactness, and mounted on beasts that might have
borne a king to battle. Of these, one carried the two-handed
broadsword of the knight, with its embroidered baldric, and
the small heater-shaped shield, embossed with the same bearing
as his surcoat; the other led his destrier, a tall, full-blooded
Andalusian red-roan, with snow-white mane and tail, barded
for battle. Ponderous, indeed, was the burthen, of both man
and horse, in those days; for the knight's charger bore, in addition
to its huge plated demipique, a chamfort covering the
forehead, connected to a series of stout plates running down
the vertebræ of the neck, and fastened to the saddle-bow; a
poitrel of fluted steel protecting the whole chest and counter,
and the bard proper, guarding the loins and croupe, from the
cantle of the saddle to the tail. All his armature was wrought
point device, to match the harness of the rider, and, like that,
was covered by a housing, as it was termed, of white cloth
rickly laced, and decorated in several places with the same
figure of the chained dragon. From the pommel of the saddle
were slung, one on either hand, a battle-axe of Damascene
steel, and a heavy mace-at-arms. The reins of the bridle
were not composed of leather, but of two plates of metal, a
hand's breadth wide in the centre, but tapering toward the bit
to which they were attached by solid rings, and toward the

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hand-piece, where they were connected by a stout thong of
bull's hide.

Such were the persons, and such their attire, who lighted
down, a short space before sunset, at the door of the village
tavern, seemingly not a little pleased to have attained its shelter
before the storm should burst, which was already howling
through the forest.

“Matthieu,” exclaimed the knight, as he sprang down from
his palfrey, with a clang and clatter that might have been heard
half a mile off, “Matthieu, good friend, let the men take the
bridles off, and feed the chargers; but bid them on no terms
unbard them, nor lay their armor off themselves. These woods
of Soignies and Ardenne are rarely free of brigands; and
though we have heard tell that those infernal miscreants, Talebard
Talebardin, and the Rouge Batard, have fallen back into
Normandy, before King Philip's host, I hold it likelier far that
they would tarry here in force, to waylay the small parties, such
as mine and five hundred others, which are all straggling up
to the rendezvous at Mirepoix. Look to it, old companion;
and then come in and see what cheer we may find for the night;
sorry enough, I trow; but `better,' as the adage goes, `a beggar's
cassock, that no covering in a storm.' ”

And with these words he entered the single room, which
occupied the whole ground floor of the cabin, serving for
kitchen, hall, and parlor; wherein he found an old and withered
crone, as deaf, apparently, as a stone-wall; for she took
no notice whatever of his entrance, her back being turned as
he stooped under the low doorway, though he made noise
enough, with his jingling spurs and clashing harness, to have
aroused the seven sleepers

“What ho! good dame,” he cried, “canst give us somewhat
to eat, and a drink of good strong wine to warm us this cold
night?” And as he spoke, he flung himself into a huge,

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oldfashioned settee, by the hearth, the woman gazing at him all
the time with an air of stupid bewilderment, which excited his
mirth to such a degree that he laughed, literally, till the tears
ran down his cheeks; increasing her confusion and dismay by
every succeeding peal of merriment. At length, after sundry
ineffectual efforts, interrupted by fresh shouts of laughter, he
made her comprehend his meaning; and, that once done, she
speedily produced some cold provisions, with a flask or two of
wine, very superior in quality to what could have been expected,
from the appearance of the hut. The joints, however, of roast
boar's flesh, and the venison pastry, which composed the principal
parts of the entertainment, had all suffered considerable
dilapidation; and it was in apologizing for this, that the old
woman let fall some expressions which aroused in an instant
the jealousy of the wary soldier.

“It was a party,” she said, “from Ghent, or Bruges, or
Antwerp it might be, that had passed by at noon with a great
train of merchandise; and such an angel of a lady, so young, and
soft, and tender, and kind-spoken! Poor thing,” she added,
“poor thing! 'twas pity they had rid forth into the forest; but the
Lord's will be done; and if it be his pleasure, sure he can guard
them from the peril —”

“Peril! what peril, dame?” shouted the count, so loudly
that she failed not to hear and comprehend him; “what peril
they should run I know not, unless it be a late ride into Braine-la-Lead;
and it may be a ducking, which, I trow, will scarcely
drown this beautiful bourgeoise. Ha! say what peril?”

“Well, well! she knew not,” she made answer; “the forest
never was over-safe; besides the gray monk of Soignies was
here as they came up, and mingled with their train, and questioned
closely of their route. God send it be all well: I be a
poor, old, helpless thing, and know naught of their doings.”

“By our lady of Bonsecours!” muttered the knight between

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his teeth, “but it seems to me thou dost know over-much for
honesty;” and then — “Whose doings, mother?” he continued;
“and who is this gray monk of Soignies? or what hath he to
make with their well-doing?”

“Nay, nay! I know not; all the world, I thought, had heard
tell of the gray brother — all the world twenty leagues round.”

“But happening not to dwell within twenty leagues round,
I have not heard tell of the gray brother; so now, I prithee,
dame, enlighten me.”

But by no exhortation, or even threats, could he extort another
word from her; for she had apparently relapsed into
impenetrable deafness, and sat crooning some old ballad over
the hearth, a picture of the most utter imbecility. The knight
pondered for a few minutes deeply; and once he half rose from
his seat, as if to order out his horses; but when he reflected
on the distance they had journeyed without any bait, he sank
down again in the settee, drained a deep draught of wine, and
with his eyes fixed on the embers of the wood-fire, continued
in a fit of musing, until he was interrupted by the entrance of
the old ecuyer Matthieu, and the two men-at-arms, from the
stable.

Bidding his followers take care of themselves, and get to
their food quickly, for he should start again so soon as the
steeds had eaten up their provender, he was again relapsing
into thought, when his squire addressed him suddenly —

“Where be the servants of the inn, beau sire?”

“There be none, Matthieu,” answered the knight very quickly;
“not a soul, save this cursed old witch, who, whether she
be deaf or no, simple or over-quick, by mine honor I am at
loss to tell!”

“Nor be there any hostlers in the stable-yard; though there
be forty stalls of stabling, and corn and hay sufficient for a
squadron, and plenty of dry litter, and signs enow of many

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horses! Nor is there, for so much as I can learn, one man in
the whole village — if village one may call this heap of filthy
hovels. Not a soul have I seen, but one foxy-headed boy, who
ran away and hid himself, so that we could not find him.”

“I fancy, my good Matthieu,” replied the count quite coolly,
“I fancy we have fallen into a precious den of routiers and
ecorcheurs. The hag let out, I know not what of travellers
who had passed by at noon, and were all like to come to evil;
but I could make naught out of her.”

“So, please you, beau sire,” interrupted one of the men-at-arms,
who had been listening attentively, their own suspicions
having been much awakened; “so, please you, beau sire, but
that I have heard say you do not like such doings, I could
find a way to make her hear, though she were as deaf as the
grave, and answer, too, though she were as dumb as a hedgehog.”

“How so, Clement Mareuil?” asked his master, sternly.
“How could you make this wretched old hag hear, if the
drums of ears be palsied?”

“Easily, beau sire, easily! let me but tie your bunch of
matches between her fingers, and just light the ends, I warrant
me she will tell all her secrets that you shall hear them a
league distant. When I was carrying a free lance in Schoenvelt's
light battalion —”

“Hark thee, Clements,” interrupted the knight; “I have
heard say that Schoenvelt's light battalion was little better than
a band of tondeurs. Himself, I know, though a fierce champion,
and a manly, to have been at the best a barbarous marauder.
Now, mark me! Let me hear such words as these
once more! much more let me hear of your doing deviltries,
such as you phrase so glibely! and, were you the best spear
in Flanders, I would strip you of my bearings, and scourge
you with my stirrup leathers, till your back should be more

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tender than your mercy! For shame! you a soldier, and
talk of torturing a woman!”

“Nay, nay, beau sire,” answered the man, much abashed;
“pardon me, for I meant no evil. Every one knows that all
the villains hereabout are in league with the gray monk of
Soignies and the Red Bastard. I warrant me this old hag
knows all their haunts as well as I know.”

“Methinks you know too much, Clement,” interposed Matthieu,
“of these routiers thyself. I warrant me, thou countest
fellowship with this Red Bastard!”

“No, no, sir! not so bad as that,” replied the soldier, looking
very much confused; “not I, indeed — though, to say
truly,” he continued, when I served Shoenvelt, there was a
proper man-at-arms among his free companions, as hideous as
the foul fiend to look upon, and as cruel, too, to say the least
of it! and I have heard say he is the man who now bears that
soubriquet. He was base-born, I know; and his hair was as
red as a fox's brush, and twice as coarse. He was a stout
lance, and a right bold rider; but God forbid that I should
count fellowship with such an utter devil!”

“And who is the gray monk of Soignies, sirrah? since
thou knowest all about it,” the knight demanded; “this old
jade spoke of him but now.”

“Ah! ah! I thought so, beau sire. I said as much a while
since. Why, the gray monk is one whom, but that he walks
the earth in human shape, and that I saw him once well nigh
killed in a mêlée, I would swear was the arch enemy of man!
Why, beau sire, it was he who forced the knight of Vitry's
castle, and crucified him over the altar of his own chapel,
while his men violated his wife and his two sisters before his
very eyes!”

“To horse!” exclaimed the knight, springing to his feet;
“to horse, then, on the instant! Away, Clement and Raoul;

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screw on my casque, Matthieu, and hang my shield about my
neck, and belt me with my espaldron, else shall more villanies
be done this night. To horse, my men, right hastily!”

With the first words of their master the men-at-arms hurried
to the stable to fetch out their chargers, but ere five minutes
had elapsed they both returned, dragging in between them a
stolid-looking, red-haired boy, whom they swore they had
caught on the point of knocking a large spike-nail — which
they produced, together with a hammer, as evidence of the
fact — into the hoof of the knight's roan charger. The old woman's
eye lightened, as the boy was dragged in, for a moment;
but she instantly resumed her appearance of stupidity, and sat,
as before, rocking herself to and fro, and droning over an old
song, careless, apparently, and ignorant of all that passed before
her.

“How now, young villain! For what wouldst thou have
lamed my war-horse?” cried the count, now excited into a
paroxysm of fury. “Speak out! speak out! or, by the God
that made me, base peasant, I will flog thee till all thy bones
are bare, and hang thee afterward, head downward, over those
slow wood-ashes. Speak, or an — thou diest not — my name
is not Hugues de Coucy!”

The boy glared up into his face with an air of stubborn resolution,
but spoke not, nor made any sign.

“Off with thy sword-belt, Clement. Mareuil, bind him to
yon door-post, and lash him till he find his tongue.” His
orders were obeyed upon the instant. The first blow of the
heavy thong fell on the naked shoulders of the peasant, and
instantly a broad, long, livid wheal rose on the withering flesh!
a second, and the blood spirted to the ceiling, as if from a
sword-cut! a third time Clement's arm was raised, and the
stubborn sufferer cowered beneath the lash; when the old hag
sprung up — “A thousand curses on thee, fool! Why dost

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not tell them that the gray brother gave thee ten Flemish
florins to lame the horse of every traveller should come up ere
sunset, that none might interrupt their doings in the forest?
And now thou knowest it all, sir knight, and much good may
it do thee! for long ere you reach the great chestnut they will
have slain the men-at-arms, and rifled the rich goods, and
worked their will on the wenches! Ha! ha! ha! now go
thy way, sir knight, and make the best on't!”

“Not I, by Heavens, till I have found a guide.”

“There is no better in the country, beau sire,” interrupted
Matthieu, “than Clement. He knows this province for thirty
leagues around, as well as ere a fox that it earths in the forest.
Is it not so, Mareuil?”

“Ay, is it,” answered the vassal, “seeing I was born in it
myself. Yes, yes, beau sire, I can lead you to the great
chestnut, and to the headless cross in the beech woods, and to
the broken bridge, and to every other haunt of these marauders.”

“How didst thou gain this knowledge, Clement? Hast
thou, indeed, consorted with these canaille? Then thou art no
more man of Hugues de Coucy! Off with my cognizances,
sirrah! Get thy ways hence, and deem it mercy I let thee
go alive!”

“No, no! beau sire! These same ecorcheurs, tondeurs, and
pilleurs, as they now call them, were once good honest foresters,
ere the wars made them first fierce soldiers, and then
disbanded depredators, and now barbarous banditti. Many a
deer I've struck with them by moonlight; and all their haunts
and trysting trees I know of old, though twenty years have
passed since I saw Ardenne.”

“Away, then! en avant! Cry Tankarville to horse, and to
the rescue!” And in five minutes space they had buckled on
their weapons, and mounted their war-horses, and rode off at

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a long, hard trot along the very road, by which the Flemish
merchants had passed, four hours before, into the forest.

“The foul fiend follow ye, and hunt ye to perdition!” exclaimed
the woman, as they rode off clanging from the door,
“and if ye reach the headless cross at daybreak, ye shall find
horse enough to harry ye!”

Dark waxed the night and darker, as they pursued their
way with unabated zeal; and the wind rose, and roared among
the tall trees of the forest, and whirled whole flights of leaves
and many a broken branch away before its furious sweep, and
the clouds blotted the faint stars; and, save that now and then
a flash of lurid lightning flickered across the moonless sky, it
had been palpable and solid gloom.

Onward they rode, still onward! and still the night waxed
wilder. No rain fell from the scudding clouds, but the fierce
wind raved awfully, and the thunder muttered in one continual
dull reverberation from every quarter of the firmament, and the
whole sky was one incessant blaze of blue and sulphurous fire.
The deep road through the forest was illuminated bright as at
noonday; and so full was the atmosphere of the electric fluid,
that a faint lambent flame played constantly about the armor
of the men, and flickered on the points of their weapons — an
awful and appalling sight! yet, as it seemed, innocuous!

Still onward! They rode onward! Night had no terror —
not even such a night as this — for one like Hugues de Coucy,
when his high valor was spurred to its mettle by a high purpose.
Onward! and now they passed the great chestnut-tree,
a landmark known for leagues, but all around was silent
and deserted. They wheeled around an angle of the road,
the lightnings blazed across the causeway, and showed a scene
that might have struck a chill to the most fiery heart. Five
horses were there plunging to and fro, and writhing in minute
agony, hamstrung by the banditti, who had not spared the

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time, or who had lacked the will, to save them hours of torture.
Beneath the feet of these, mangled and maimed by their
incessant plungings, but, happily, insensible to any pain or
outrage, lay in their curdled gore eight human bodies! Four
stout-armed serving-men, three of them shot into their faces
with barbed arrows, one of them slain outright by a spear-thrust,
a youthful gentleman, an aged steward, or seneschal,
and two unarmed grooms, hacked with unnumbered wounds —
all foully, barbarously slaughtered!

The knight pulled up his charger on the spot; and, at the
moment, a loud cry for aid fell on his sharpened ear.

“Who calls?” he cried, “who calls for succor? In God's
name it is here!”

“I, Arnold Marillon, of Bruges,” he replied, in a faint voice
from the forest, “I am bound here to the oak-tree!”

“Good Lord! mine ancient friend, Marillon! Hold my
horse, Clement Mareuil — hold my horse! Follow, Matthieu!
Be of good cheer, fair master Marillon. It is thine old friend
Hugues de Coucy, whose ransom thou didst pay, in past years,
to Ferrand, earl of Flanders! — all shall yet be well with thee—
ay, by St. Paul, and well avenged!”

In another moment the old man was released from his
bonds, and refreshed by a draught of wine from a huge bottiau,
or leather bottle, which hung at the squire's pommel, was
speedily able to recount his grievances.

A few words told the fatal story. At early evening they
had been ambushed by a band of four robbers only; three of
their armed retainers had been shot down in the first onset,
the other speared by the Red Bastard, and then,” he added,
half suffocated as he spoke by fierce and passionate grief,
“and then they slaughtered, in cold blood, my sister's son —
my dear, my fair-haired William! they slaughtered my old
faithful steward! they slaughtered my poor valets! and they

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have dragged away my girl, my hope, my more than life! —
Marguerite de Beaufroy — to infamy, and agony, and death!”

“Clement, canst thou guide us farther?”

“To the Red Bastard's presence!”

“Come, then, kind Marillon, take one more draught of wine,
mount on Grey Termagant, and ride with us right hopefully.
What has been done can be, ay, and shall be avenged! but
can not be amended. What is undone as yet, as yet may be
prevented. God and the good saints aid us! and thou mayst
yet embrace thy niece ere daybreak.”

Not a word was more spoken, nor a moment of time wasted.
The old merchant was mounted without delay; and, although
weak and worn by suffering and sorrow, he rode on stoutly by
the side of his deliverer.

All night they rode; but, just as day was breaking, they
reached the summit of a little hill overlooking a marshy valley
intersected by a cross-road, with a thick beech-wood occupying
all the bottom land, and a broken cross of stone in the
centre of the causeway. Before they reached the summit of
the hill, the voice of Clement warned the knight that now or
never they should meet the formidable Routier; and, in effect,
as they crossed the brow, they came in view of the party —
four horsemen, fully though irregularly armed, and three female
figures bent to their saddles with fatigue, and prevented from
falling only by the bonds that fettered them. The clatter of
the knight's approach had warned them of their coming danger;
and sending the women forward to the cross, the brigands
drew themselves up across the road, in readiness to dispute
the passage.

“Tankarville to the rescue! St. Paul! St. Paul for Tankarville;”
and down the gentle slope thundered the knight and
his attendants; while with equal spirit the robbers spurred their
steeds to meet them.

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“Ha! ha! Saynct Diable!” but his awful war-cry was cut
short, for the Red Bastard, conspicuous by his crimson panoply
and dauntless bearing, had singled out De Coucy, and
charged him with lance in rest with singular prowess; but
though he charged his lance with perfect skill, striking the
very centre of the knight's vizor, and shivering the stout ashpole
to atoms up to the very grasp, De Coucy no more wavered
in his saddle, than he had done for the buffet of a lady's fan!
While his lanced-head pierced sheer through shield and plastron,
corselet and shirt of mail, and spitting the marauder through
and through came out at his back-piece, the shaft snapping
short some two feet from the champion's gauntlet! though slain
outright, the routier sat his horse stiffly; and, as the knight's
charger still swept on, he was in the act of passing Hugues,
when the latter, not perceiving that he was slain, stood up in
his stirrups and smote him such a blow on the head-piece with
the truncheon of his broken lance, that all the fastenings of the
vizor burst, the avantaille flew open, and the hideous face of
the Red Routier was displayed, livid with the hues of death, and
writhing with the anguish of the parting struggle! De Coucy's
followers had fared as well as he, for two of the marauders,
the antagonists of Clement Mareuil and old Matthieu, were
killed in the first shock; but the priest shivered his spear fairly
with Raoul and passing by him unharmed, darted into the
beechwood, and escaped.

For a moment it seemed as though the field were won, and
the women rescued; it was, however, but for a moment! for
scarcely was that onset over, before the thundering sound of a
large body of armed horse came down the two cross-roads,
blended with the clangor of dissonant horns, and wild yells,
and savage outcries.

“Ha! ha! Saynct Diable!” Talebard Talebardin to the
rescue!” and, wheeling down like lightning through both

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avenues, thirty of forty savage-looking, irregular horse drove, with
their spears in rest, against the little party of De Coucy.

The champion's lance was broken; yet undaunted, he encountered
the front rank; three lances shivered against his
coat of proof, but shook him not a hair's breadth in his stirrups.
Three sweeping blows of his two-handed sword! and three
steeds ran masterless, while their riders rolled under the hoofs
in the death struggle. But one man, though a hero, can not
succeed against a host. As he raised his sword for a fourth
stroke, a thundering blow of a mace or battle-axe was dealt him
from behind, and at the same instant a lance point was driven
through the eye into his charger's brain. Down he went,
horse and man, and when he recovered his senses from the
shock, a man in plain, bright armor was kneeling on his breast;
and the point of a dagger, thrust between the bars of his avantaille,
was razing the skin of his face.

“Yield thee, sir knight, or die! Yield! rescue or no rescue!”

“To whom must I yield me! though it avail me naught to
ask it?” inquired the haughty baron, retaining all his pride and
all his fiery valor.

“To me — Talebard Talebardin!”

“I! — I! — I, Hugues de Coucy, yield me to such a slave as
thou art — to a murtherer of old men in cold blood — a violator
of ladies — a torturer of babes and suckling! sacrilegious dog!
base knave! thief! traitor! liar! vassal! do thy worst, I defy
thee!”

“Ha! my most noble baron, is it thou?” answered the ruffian
perfectly unmoved. “I might have guessed as much, by
thy bold bearing — Nay! nay! we do not stick such lambs as
thou art, for their flesh's sake, we save them for their ransoms!
Here, Croquart, Picard, Jean Le Noir, bind this sweet baron,
hand and foot; and strip him of his gay feathers straightway;
but harm him not upon your lives. By all the fiends in hell,

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his ransom will bring fifty thousand crowns of the sun right
readily! So that is briefly settled!”

And with the words, he rose from the chest of the knight;
and resigning him to the hands of his subordinate ruffians,
walked off to examine the field of battle, and the booty which
had fallen into his hands. The latter comprised the miserable
Marguerite half rescued only to be again enthralled with her
two serving-women; the old merchant, Arnold Morillon, and
the stout baron Hugues de Coucy. Six of the routiers had
been slain, beside the Rouge Batard; four of the number by
the hand of Hugues! The men-at-arms, Raoul and Clement
had both died fighting to the last; but dead or living, Matthieu
de Montmesnil, the old esquire, was to be found nowhere.
And it is doubtful, whether, as the knight was borne away into
captivity, he did not regret more deeply than either his own
defeat or the seizure of the women, the disgrace of the veteran
warrior who had fought by the side of his father; and who according
to the rules of chivarly, should have died under shield
dauntless, rather than leave his lord, captive or dead, upon the
field of honor.

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