“One thing, good friend,” I said, as we swung along southward, “what is thy name, that I may know whom I may thank for this wonderful deliverance.”

My comrade laughed strangely at my words, and answered hastily—­

“For names, lad, we are not over-ready with them in the chateau yonder.  Ofttimes their sound, compared with their ring in other days, bringeth more pain than joy.  You may call me, if thou wilt, Des Bois, for indeed I love the woodland.  And for thanks, lad, thank me with a kind word and trustful look, and a good stroke of the sword, if that be needful ever for mine honour.”

So we strode on, and as the moonlight made silvery passages amid the trees, I watched him as he knitted his brows in thought, whether on my account or his own I knew not.  I thought I saw in him all that I dreamed of knightly spirit, and I guessed that in Des Bois lay hidden one like Brother Hugo, who for some reason masked a great and noble name in this poor, paltry disguise.  Ay, but it was a visage that not long rested serious.  A smile broke over its furrows, making it like a field that smiled in the sunlight, and he said right gaily in my ear—­

“Ay, good lad, we will weave thee a rope to Normandy both strong and subtle, and witty withal, and thou shalt hear its texture when we arrive yonder; but as the night wears on, we must ride faster, or trot ourselves, since steed are lacking, so let us not lose time.”

With that indeed he broke into a nimble run, and I followed.  And ere half a mile was passed, we were out of the forest and by the shore of the sea, hard by Cobo Bay, and keeping still close to cover, lest danger should arise—­for the pirates had their sentinels in huts in every small harbour of the isle—­we ere long were by La Perelle Bay, and I could see on Lihou the dim outline of the monastery.

Soon Des Bois turned sharply to the left, and we were soon in a trim wood that ran up almost from the shore.  The blind, thick wall of a small building lay in our path, and by its side a little low-roofed hut of daub and wattle.

“The chapel of good St. Apolline!” I said in surprise, for I knew well that little shrine by the coast, where the fisher-people made supplication for good weather and success in their craft, and hung up their poor offerings for the holy saint’s honour.

“Ay, that it is,” said Des Bois.  “Now will we find its guardian at his vigils.”

He oped with ease the latch of the lowly door of the hut, and we found, indeed, no saint at matins or prime, but only the priest of St. Apolline, curled on his wood settle in honest slumber, and snoring lustily withal.

Des Bois gazed at him with a merry smile, and presently tweaked him merrily by the ear, crying out—­

“Up, good hog! up, griskin-knave! up, lubber! and provide meet entertainment for honest men.”

“Ralf!  Ralf!” sang out the priest in alarm, as he leapt from his poor couch.  “What make you here at this hour of night?”