And as Master Bernard de Brocas listened to this tale of treachery, planned and carried out against one of his own name and race, an answering light shone in his eyes, and he smote his palms together, crying out in sudden wrath: 

“Gaston, the King shall hear of this!  Thou shalt tell to him the tale as thou hast told it to me.  He will not hear patiently of such indignities offered to a subject of his, not though the King of France himself had done it!  That Sieur de Navailles is no friend to England.  I know him well, and his false, treacherous ways.  I have heard much of him ere now, and the King has his eye upon him.  Gaston, this hollow truce cannot long continue.  The nobles and the King are alike weary of a peace which is no peace, and which the King of France or his lords are continually breaking.  A very little, and the flame of war will burst out anew.  It may be that even this tale of thine may put the spark to the train (as they say of these new artillery engines that are so astonishing men by their smoke and noise), and that the Prince, when he hears of it, will urge his father to march once more into France, and put an end to the petty annoyances and treacherous attacks which are goading the royal lion of England to wrath and fury.”

“Pray Heaven it may!” cried Gaston, starting to his feet and pacing up and down the hall.  “Thou knowest, uncle mine, how the Prince and the King did long ago confirm to me the rights of the De Brocas to the ancient Castles of Orthez and Saut.  If he would but give me his royal warrant for mustering men and recovering mine own, I trow, be the walls of Saut never so strong, that I would speedily make mine entrance within them!  Uncle, the Sieur de Navailles is hated and feared and reviled by all men for miles around his walls.  I trow that, even amongst those who bear arms for him, some would be found who would gladly serve another master.  Stories of the punishments he is wont to inflict upon all who fall beneath his displeasure have passed from mouth to mouth, and bitter is the rage burning in the breasts of those whose helpless kinsfolk have suffered through his tyrant cruelty.  I trow an armed band, coming in the name of the English King, could soon smoke that old fox out of his hole; whilst all men would rejoice at his fall.  Let me to the King —­ let me tell my tale!  I burn to be on the wing once more!  Where may his Majesty be found?”

“Softly, softly, boy!  We must think somewhat more of this.  And we have two foes, not one alone, to deal with.  Peter Sanghurst is, as it were, beneath our very hand.  He is at Basildene, fuming like a wild thing at the sudden disappearance of Mistress Joan.  There be, nevertheless, some who say that this wrath is all assumed; that he has captured the lady, and holds her a prisoner in his hands, all the while pretending to know naught of her.  I know not what truth there may be in such rumours.  The Sanghurst bears an evil name, and many are the stories whispered about him.”