“King Stephen was a worthy peer.”

The hall was lofty, sculptured round with armorial devices, and hung with gaily-embroidered banners, which waved in the wind streaming from the crannies in windows which had suffered some dilapidation from the hand of time.  Minstrel harps rang throughout the wide apartment, and at a board well covered with smoking viands—­haunches of the red deer, bustards, cranes, quarters of mutton, pasties, the grinning heads of wild boars,—­and flanked with flagons of wine, and tankards of foaming ale, sat King Stephen, surrounded by the flower of the Norman nobles, whose voices had placed him on the English throne.  In the midst of the feast, the jovial glee of the wassailers was interrupted by the entrance of a page, who, forcing his way through the yeomen and lacqueys crowding at the door, flew with breathless haste to the feet of the king, and falling down on his knees, in faltering accents delivered the message with which he had been intrusted.  “Up, gallants,” exclaimed the martial monarch, “don your harness, and ride as lightly as you may to the relief of the Countess of Clare, she lies in peril of her life and honour, beleaguered by a rabble of unnurtured Welsh savages, who, lacking respect for beauty, have directed their arms against a woman.  Swollen with vain pride at their late victory, (the fiend hang the coward loons who fled before them,) they have sworn to make this noble lady serve them barefoot in their camp.  By St. Dennis and my good sword, were I not hampered by this pestilent invasion of the Scots, I would desire no better pastime than to drive the ill-conditioned serfs howling from the walls.  Say, who amongst you will undertake the enterprise?—­What, all silent? are ye knights? are ye men? do I reign over christian warriors, valiant captains who have been sworn to protect beauty in distress; or are ye like the graceless dogs of Mahomed, insensible to female honour?” “My ranks are wonderous scant,” returned Milo Fitzwalter, “I may not reckon twenty men at arms in the whole train, and varlets have I none; but it boots not to number spears when danger presses; so to horse and away.  Beshrew me, were it the termagant Queen Maude herself, I’d do my best to rescue her in this extremity.”—­“Thou art a true knight, Fitzwalter,” replied the king, “and wilt prosper:  the Saint’s benizon be with thee, for thou must speed on this errand with such tall men as thou canst muster of thine own proper followers:  the Scots, whom the devil confound, leave me too much work, to spare a single lance from mine own array.  We will drink to thy success, and to the health of the fair countess, in a flask of the right Bourdeaux:  and tell the lady that thy monarch grudges thee this glorious deed; for by my Halidom, an thou winnest her unscathed from the hands of these Welsh churls, thou wilt merit a niche beside the most renowned of Charlemagne’s paladins.”  Fitzwalter made no answer, but he armed in haste, and, leaping into his saddle, gave the spur to his