“Are you ready?” De Lacy demanded, running his eye along the line.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Forward, then;” and at a trot he led the way.

“You know our mission?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And the men, also?”

“I ventured to tell them.”

“It may be heavy duty and full of danger.”

The old warrior drew himself up sharply.  “Your lordship does not doubt me?”

“Nay, Raynor, never you.  I only want your vouchment for the soldiers.”

“Many would give their lives for you, Sir Aymer; all would die for the Countess of Clare.”

“And you all may be afforded the opportunity ere the quest be ended,” said De Lacy grimly.  “We take the path to the Hermit’s Cell; see that I do not miss it.  Furthermore, you know this country intimately, so do not hesitate to advise me at any time.”

Raynor Royk dropped back to resume his place; then quickly turned:  “Two horsemen gallop after us, my lord.”

De Lacy reined around and raised his arm for the column to halt.

“They wear armor,” said he, “but I discern no jupon.”

Raynor Royk shook his head.  “The corselets shine plain, but methinks it is Sir Ralph de Wilton in front.”

“Aye, it is Sir Ralph!” Dauvrey exclaimed, “or I know not a man’s seat in saddle.”

De Lacy rode back to greet him.

“Did you come from London at that pace, Ralph?” he asked as they met.

“Nay, only from Pontefract to overtake you.”

“You have news of the Countess?”

“Alas, no.  I reached Pontefract town from London last night, but too late to report at the castle before morning. . .  Now, His Majesty can wait until we have found Beatrix.  I ride with you, my friend.”

De Lacy put out his hand and De Wilton reached over and took it; and in the firm grip of their fingers was the confession of the one and the sympathetic appreciation of the other.

“We will save her, never fear,” Sir Ralph said.  Then his eyes fell on the ring.  “By St. George, The Boar!  I salute you—­for even though you are not the King, still are you almost as powerful.  Whoever wears that ring has all but the title—­aye, and more—­he has the King’s enemies as well as his own.”

“And me a stranger!” De Lacy observed tersely.

“Aye, and what with that, and the Ring, and the Countess, your life is not worth a third that mine is.”

“It is worth absolutely nothing to me unless Beatrix be found alive.”

“Pardieu! her life is in no danger.  At the most, she will be held only for ransom.”

“Heaven grant it! though I fear the plot is more deeply laid.”

“In that case, my dear De Lacy, when she is rescued let the Church work quickly its sacrament upon you; there will be less temptation then to carry her off.”

“Yonder, my lord, lies the way to the Hermit’s Cell,” came the voice of Raynor Royk.