“Truly, I will; and I would have you read and write, especially in Latin, when you have the chance—­good gifts should not be buried.  Bethink you, too, that you will not have the same excuse for sin as the rude ignorant men you will meet.”

“Eustace!” hastily called Reginald, and with a hurried farewell to all around, the young Squire sprang on horseback, and the troop rode across the drawbridge.  They halted on the mound beyond; Sir Reginald shook his pennon, till the long white swallow tails streamed on the wind, then placed it in the hands of Eustace, and saying, “On, Lances of Lynwood!  In the name of God, St. George, and King Edward, do your devoir;” he spurred his horse forward, as if only desirous to be out of sight of his own turrets, and forget the parting, the pain of which still heaved his breast and dimmed his eye.

A few days brought the troop to Southampton, where John of Gaunt was collecting his armament, and with it they embarked, crossed to St. Malo, and thence proceeded to Bordeaux, but there found that the Prince of Wales had already set forth, and was waiting for his brother at Dax.

Advancing immediately, at the end of three days they came in sight of the forces encamped around that town.  Glorious was the scene before them, the green plain covered in every direction with white tents, surmounted with the banners or pennons of their masters, the broad red Cross of St. George waving proudly in the midst, and beside it the royal Lions and Castles of the two Spanish monarchies.  To the south, the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees began to gleam white like clouds against the sky, and the gray sea-line to the west closed the horizon.  Eustace drew his rein, and gazed in silent admiration, and Gaston, riding by his side, pointed out the several bearings and devices which, to the warrior of that day, spoke as plainly (often more so) as written words.  “See yonder, the tent of my brave countryman, the Captal de Buch, close to that of the Prince, as is ever his wont.  No doubt he is willing to wipe away the memory of his capture at Auray.  There, to the left, gules and argent, per pale, is the pennon of the stout old Englishman, Chandos.  Ha!  I see the old Free Companions are here with Sir Hugh Calverly!  Why, ’twas but the other day they were starting to set this very Don Enrique on the throne as blithely as they now go to drive him from his.”

While Gaston spoke, the sound of horses’ feet approached rapidly from another quarter, and a small party came in sight, the foremost of whom checked his bridle, as, at Reginald’s signal, his Lances halted and drew respectfully aside.  He was a man about thirty-six years of age, and looking even younger, from the remarkable fairness and delicacy of his complexion.  The perfect regularity of his noble features, together with the commanding, yet gentle expression of his clear light blue eyes, would, even without the white ostrich feather in his black velvet cap, have enabled Eustace to recognize in him the flower of chivalry, Edward, Prince of Wales.