The captain of the little band of soldiers who guarded the gate by which the royal procession was to enter, came forward doffing his mailed head piece to greet the wife of the gallant Sir James, who was a notable gentleman in those parts.  By his courtesy the lady and her child were allowed to take up a position so close to the gate as would insure for them a most excellent view of the royal party; whilst the humbler crowd was kept at a more discreet distance by the good-humoured soldiers, who exercised their office amid plenty of jesting and laughing, which showed that an excellent understanding existed between them and their brethren of the soil.  The captain, as the hour for the entrance drew near, took up his position beside the lady, and conversed with her in low tones.  Paul listened with all his ears the moment he discovered that the soldier was talking about his beloved little prince.

“I do not credit every idle tale I hear, or certes life would be but a sorry thing for a soldier.  But there is a queer rumour flying about that some of the bold marauding fellows who follow the banner of York, Salisbury, and Warwick have been following and hanging on the trail of the royal party with a view to the capture—­so it is said—­of the Prince of Wales, who, once in the hands of the rival faction, would prove a hostage of no mean value.  I can scarce credit such a tale myself.  Sure am I that it cannot have originated in the mind of any of those noble earls, but must be the device of some meaner churl, who hopes to gain a reward for his treachery.  Belike there is no truth whatever in it.  Rumour is never idle, and must have some food to satisfy its cravings.  I credit not so wild a tale, albeit I must be on the watch against all chances.

“But hark! hear you not that sound in the distance? and methinks I see on yonder height the glitter of the spearmen and the sheen of an armed multitude.  Ay, it is truly so.  They come, they come!  Why, it is a goodly following our gallant knights and gentlemen have furnished.  Their gracious majesties will have no cause to grumble at the loyalty of their trusty county of Lichfield {1}.”

Paul’s breath went and came.  The words of the captain had stirred his heart, and now the actual approach of the royal family set every pulse throbbing.  Eagerly his eyes were fixed upon the advancing column of gallant riders, the self-appointed bodyguard of the king and queen—­a bodyguard which, changing and shifting as the royal party progressed through the kingdom, yet never deserted them throughout the triumphal march, and did not a little to raise within the breast of the queen that martial ardour which was to be so severely tested in days to come.

Nearer and yet more near came the gay procession; banners flying, trumpets sounding, the joy bells from the town giving back gay response.  And now the mounted gentlemen—­amongst whom Paul’s quick eyes have already discovered his father and brothers—­wheel rapidly aside to right and left, forming a sort of avenue to the gateway through which the royal riders are to pass, to receive the loyal welcome of the venerable prelate and the city dignitaries.