“Au revoir, amante,” he called.

She smiled sweetly upon him and answered his kiss; then stood watching him as he rode rapidly away, followed by his attendant Knights, until the dark arch of the distant gateway hid him from her sight.

A few moments later Sir Aymer de Lacy came riding across the courtyard with his escort.  He had changed his suit of velvet for one of steel; for being ignorant both of the country into which he was about to travel and of what manner of adventure might lie before him, he had deemed it well to have something more than silken doublet between his heart and a cloth-yard shaft.  His visor was raised, and as he passed the keep, he looked up at every window.  All were deserted, however, and he was about to turn away when, suddenly, a casement swung open and the Countess of Clare appeared in the stone-framed opening.

“Au revoir,” she cried, and waved her kerchief.

Then by some mischance the bit of lace slipped from her fingers and floated slowly downward.  She made a quick grasp for it, but it had sunk beyond her reach.  A puff of wind spread it wide and carried it out toward De Lacy.  He watched it as it dropped, bringing Selim almost to a stand to keep beneath it, and at length it rested upon his extended hand.

“I claim my favor, fair Countess,” he called, and wound it round the crest of his helmet—­then loosened rein and dashed away.

VI

A WAYSIDE SKIRMISH

For a space Sir Aymer rode alone at the head of the column without even casting a glance behind or addressing a word to his squire.  Presently the road forked and turning half around in his saddle, he inquired:  “Which leads to Kirkstall Abbey?”

“The straightaway one, my lord; the other would carry you back to Wakefield,” said the elderly under-officer, whose hair, where it had strayed from under his casquetel, was silvered, and across whose weather-beaten face, from chin to temple, ran a bright red scar.

“The battlefield?”

“The same, sir.”

“Ride beside me,” said De Lacy.  “Did you fight at Wakefield?”

“I did, fair sir—­it was a bloody field.”

“The Duke of York died that day.”

“Aye, sir—­I stood not ten feet from him when he fell.  He was a brave knight, and our own Gloucester much resembles him in countenance.”

“You have seen many battles, my man?”

“Since the first St. Albans I have missed scarce one.  It is a trade that came into the family with my grandsire’s sire.”

“And do your children follow it, as well?”

“Not so, my lord.  Raynor Royk has none to succeed him.  And by your leave it is small matter.  In a few years there will be but scant work for my calling in this land.  England has seen her last warrior King--unless------”

“Unless what?” said De Lacy.