The entry of the squire broke in on the Knight’s thoughts, and he turned from the window.

“Make haste, Giles,” said he, “and get me out of this steel.”

With the skill of long practice it was quickly done; and removing the suit of thin yellow leather worn under the harness, De Lacy donned a doublet and short gown of black velvet, and then, throwing himself upon the bed, he awaited the summons to the evening meal.

Meanwhile, the squire had laid aside his own armor and stood forth in his leather suit that was creased and soiled by the iron weight.

Giles Dauvrey was no fledgling whose apprenticeship had begun among the dainty pages of my lady’s bower.  A Gascon, and lowly born, he was a simple man-at-arms when, in a small affray on the Italian border, he had chanced to ward from Sir Aymer de Lacy’s head the battle-axe that, falling on him from behind, must else have cleft him to the gorget.  The young Knight had thereupon obtained the man’s transfer to his own following and—­becoming assured of his bravery and martial fitness—­he had made him his squire when, a few months later, an Italian cross-bolt had wrought a vacancy in the post.  Stocky in build, wonderfully quick and thoroughly trained in arms, he also had the rare faculty of executing an order without the slightest evasion, and could be trusted in any emergency either of discretion or valor.  Right often had the two stood side by side in the press of skirmish and the rush of battle,—­for they had ever sought the locality of strife—­and there had come to be little choice for the foeman between the accomplished axe-play of the master and the sweeping blows of the sturdy squire.  And as among the veteran soldiery of the French-Italian borders no name stood higher than De Lacy, so also was no wearer of the silver spurs more respected than he who bore the banner of the Trippant Stag.

“It is a great fortress, Giles,” said the Knight.  “Never have I seen a stronger.”

“Marry, no; nor one, I ween, wherein the discipline was sterner.  Are all castles in this land of yours, my lord, so conducted?”

“All wherein the Duke of Gloucester holds command.”

“Of a truth, then,” said Dauvrey, “the tales I have heard of this Prince are not so wide of the clout.”

“What were the tales?”

“They were many and various, yet I gathered that he was a great warrior and fit to be a ruler of men.”

“And you gathered truly,” returned De Lacy.  “He is the best soldier and shrewdest man in all this island Kingdom.”

“How looks he to the eye, my lord?”

“You may judge that for yourself; observe him at the evening meal.  Here comes the summons.”

A step came rapidly up the stairs and a page halted at the half-opened doorway.

“His Grace requests that Sir Aymer de Lacy join him in the great hall,” he said.

The Knight arose and flung his short cloak about him.