“The prince!” he cried, in tones sharpened by physical and mental anguish, “the prince!—­where is he?”

“He is a prisoner; but he is unhurt.  A gallant knight took him.  His name, I learned from one of his men-at-arms, is Sir Richard Crofts; and he called out to his men, after you were down, that he would have no hurt done to the prince.  He was to be taken prisoner and brought to the king—­so he called him; and he had given out by proclamation that whoever brought to him the prince, alive or dead, should have a hundred pounds a year; and that the life of the prince should be spared.  This I learned from the man-at-arms who stayed behind with me a while, to bind up a wound you had given him, and to help me to unlace your helmet, which was going nigh to choke you as you lay.

“Fear not for the prince, good master.  His life is safe; and doubtless his noble aspect will win him favour with him they now call king.

“Nay, why do you struggle with me? you can scarce stand yet.  Whither would you go?  Let me catch some riderless steed and carry you to the town.  Methinks the leaders have taken sanctuary with the queen in the church.  You had better join them there.”

“Ay, get me a horse,” said Paul, with faint but vehement command; and he leaned heavily upon his sword as his servant departed to do his bidding.

Battered, sore wounded as he felt himself to be, instinct told him that he could act now as it would be impossible to do later, when his wounds began to stiffen and his muscles to refuse to obey his will.  No bones were broken.  He could still keep his feet and use his arms; and when the faithful servant brought up a horse and helped his master to mount, Paul felt that giddy and weak and suffering as he was, he could yet make shift to ride as far as it would be needful to do.  The royal pennon floating over a certain tent not so very far away told him that his goal might yet be reached before his strength deserted him.  The fiery spirit of which he again partook gave him temporary power.  He scarce knew what he wished to do, save that he must stand beside his prince when he was brought to Edward’s presence, and if harm befell him there, share it with him, as he had shared his peril that fatal day.

“Save yourself, good Adam,” he said to his servant when he was once mounted; “I am going to follow the prince.  But come not near the enemy’s lines yourself, lest mischief befall you.”

And before the astonished servant could speak a word of remonstrance, Paul had set spurs to his horse and had galloped off in the direction of the enemy’s camp.

Within the lines there was the confusion incident to a battle, and no one heeded the battered rider, who, his helmet left behind and his mail dinted and disfigured by the hard blows it had received, had nothing about him to show to which army he belonged.  Soldiers were leaning on their swords and eagerly discussing the fortunes of the day; and round and about Edward’s royal tent a dense crowd had gathered, out of curiosity, it was said—­and Paul heard the words—­to see what manner of reception would be met at the monarch’s hands by the youthful Edward, called “Prince,” who had been brought into the lines by Sir Richard Crofts.