Halting before the inn of the “Silver Sun,” a ramshackle old house, from over whose door, as proclaiming the character of the place, projected a long pole with a bunch of furze on the end, De Lacy called, “Ho, within!”

The landlord, a big, blear-eyed rogue, much the worse for wear and ale, came shambling out at the summons.  His listlessness vanished quickly enough, however, at sight of the Knight and his following; and bowing to the ground he asked how he might serve them.

“With food and drink, good fellow,” said De Lacy; “and that right quickly.”

“Your worship shall be accommodated immediately with what I have,” said the man with another bow that almost overbalanced him, “but if it is meagre, blame the Duke of Gloucester and his men.”

“His Grace has passed?” asked Aymer.

“God’s truth! he has,” said the fellow.  “He precedes you by a day.  And, saving your lordship, if you travel to the Coronation, methinks you will have but scant fare along the road.  They eat things clean as they go—­but pay good silver for it.”

“How many has the Duke in his train?”

“At least six hundred, I should say.”

“He has doubled his force since he left Pontefract,” observed Aymer to his squire, as the inn-keeper retired.  “And there may be truth in what the rogue says—­we may find slender provision in the wake of such a column.”

“If there be enough for the horses, we can soon overtake them,” said the squire; “for the men, it matters little:  we all are soldiers.”

De Lacy nodded.  “We will push on steadily, and though I know little of this country, I fancy we will come up with the Duke by to-morrow night.”

“By your lordship’s permission,” said old Raynor Royk respectfully, who had overheard the conversation, “we shall not see the White Boar banner this side Leicester town, and we shall scarce reach there before the evening of the second day from now.”

And the old veteran, as events proved, was correct in his calculation.

When De Lacy entered Leicester, he hailed the first soldier he chanced upon and was informed that Gloucester lodged at the “White Boar,” near the center of the town.  It was a large and handsome stone house, with the second floor of timber overhanging the street; and before it swung the painted sign:  a white boar and a thorn bush, indicating that the place was named in honor of the Duke.  And De Lacy smiled as he thought how, to his own knowledge, at least half a dozen inns on the Continent had been hastily compelled to rechristen themselves when, from some cause or other, the particular individual whose name or arms they bore fell suddenly into disgrace.  That such might happen in this case, however, never crossed his mind.

Passing the guards, who knew him and saluted, he entered the house, but was stopped at once by two strange squires, who informed him that the Duke was at present engaged.  But even as they spoke, the inner door opened and Sir Richard Ratcliffe came out.