All day long the cooks and their menials had groaned before the huge fires, where they roasted deer, sheep, oxen, swine, and the like, and now they bore the joints in procession around the tables, and the guests cut off—­with the knives which hung at their girdles, and which, perchance, had been more than once stained by the blood of their foes—­such portion of the meat as they fancied, transferred it to their trenchers, and ate it without the aid of forks; nevertheless there were napkins whereon to wipe their hands when they had done.

The leaders sat at the high table—­the leaders of each of the numerous bands which had scoured the forest; one, and only one, was absent, and he was, as our readers know, Etienne, son of Hugo.

Naught was said until hunger and thirst were appeased—­until basins were brought round with scented water, in which our lords washed their fingers, and after waving them gracefully in the air, dried them with the delicate napkins with which they were girded:  and rich wines were poured into goblets of gold and silver; then Hugo asked, from his seat upon the dais: 

“What success has gladdened our arms today?  Doubtless some of our knights have news for us.”

“I have seen no foe, save the wild boar and a stray wolf, although I have tramped the forest from the rising to the setting sun,” said Sir Bernard.

“Nor I,” “nor I,” said one after the other around the table.

The old man, Eustace de Senville, was silent till all had spoken; then, like Nestor of old, wise, and qualified by age to act as counsellor, he let fall his weighty words, which fell from his lips like the flakes of thick falling snow without.

“My lot hath been different,” he said; “it fell to me to explore the quarter of the forest next to that assigned to the son of our host.  We had already completed our task, and were on the point of returning homewards, for the sun was already low, when we heard the blast of a horn appealing to us for aid.”

“From what quarter?” said the baron.

“That assigned to your son.  We at once hastened to render help, and, after some fruitless search, heard the horn once more, and, guided by its sound, reached a spot where the groans of one in pain fell upon our ear, amidst the increasing darkness of the forest.  We found the victim, his horn by his side, dead—­pierced through by an arrow.  The life had been ebbing when, hearing our signals, he had striven with his last breath to summon us that he might not die alone, and, indeed, his face looked as one who had died in awful fear with some gruesome sight before his eyes.”

“To what party did he belong?”

“He wore the badge of Aescendune, he was short of stature, one shoulder somewhat higher than the other, and he wore this belt, which we have brought home in hopes he may be known thereby.”

The baron took the belt, with hands which shook in spite of all his efforts at composure, and knew it to belong to one Torquelle, who had been in attendance on his son.