Sir Ralph looked at him in wondering surprise—­then clapped him on the shoulder.

“French skies and French blood!  Pardieu, man, go in and show this Darby and the others how the game is played.”

“But the chains------”

“Wrap them about her also.  And by Heaven, why not?—­the last of the Lacys and the last of the Clares.  St. George, it would be like old times in Merry England.”

“Nay, Sir Ralph,” said Aymer, laying his hand upon the other’s arm, “your words are quite too flattering.  I must be content with the smile.”

De Wilton raised his eyebrows.  “You brought the chains across the Channel with you?”

De Lacy arose.  “No, but maybe I have found them since.”

Suddenly De Wilton laughed.  “My mind surely is getting weak,” he said.  “I clean forgot you had never seen the Countess.”

“Oh, yes, I have—­on the wall last night.”

“Was it possible you were near when Darby found her?”

“I was with her.”

“With her!” said De Wilton incredulously.  “Surely you do not mean it.”

De Lacy’s face straightened.  “Be a little more explicit, please,” he said.

“Tut, man, I meant no offence,” was the good-natured answer.  “You do not understand the matter.  The Countess never walks alone on the ramparts after dark with any man save the Duke and me.”

“St. Denis, I forgot.  It was you she walked with,” said Aymer.

De Wilton stared at him.  “Are you quite sane?” he asked.

De Lacy linked his arm within the other’s.  “Come over to the window and I will tell you how, last night, Sir Ralph de Wilton chanced to walk with the Countess of Clare on the ramparts of Pontefract.”

“And I suppose then it was you, and not I, who talked with the Duchess in her presence chamber all the time the Countess of Clare was gone.”

“No, I was on the ramparts, too,” De Lacy answered.  “Listen—­here is the tale.”

“Good!” exclaimed De Wilton at the end.  “She punished Darby well—­I wish I could have seen it; and it cut him to the raw, for all his suave indifference.”  Suddenly he struck the wall sharply.  “And yet—­she rides with him to-day.  St. George!  We are back where we started.  Women are queer creatures!”

Just then Sir James Dacre stopped at the corridor door.

“Who is for a ride?” he asked.

“I am,” said De Lacy, “if Sir Ralph will excuse me.”

De Wilton nodded.  “Go, by all means; it was good of you to keep me company even for a moment.”

“I might venture to guess,” said Dacre, as they cantered across the bailey toward the gate, “that that black of yours was never foaled in England.”

“I got Selim in Spain,” De Lacy answered, “and with him the story that he came from the stables of the Soldan of Granada—­but of that I cannot vouch—­nor do I care,” patting the shining shoulder; “he is my good friend and companion, and he has never failed me.”