“Yield? and to thee?” said the Knight; “yet it is well meant.  The sword of Arthur himself would be of no avail.  Tiphaine was right!  It is the fated day.  Thou art of gentle birth?  I yield me then, rescue or no rescue, the rather that I see thou art a gallant youth.  Hark you, fellows, I am a prisoner, so get off with you.  Your name, bold youth?”

“Eustace Lynwood, brother to this Knight,” said Eustace, raising his visor, and panting for breath.

“You need but a few years to nerve your arm.  But rest a while, you are almost spent,” said the prisoner, in a kind tone of patronage, as he looked at the youthful face of his captor, which in a second had varied from deep crimson to deadly paleness.

“My brother! my brother!” was all Eustace’s answer, as he threw himself on the grass beside Gaston, who, though bleeding fast, had raised his master’s head, and freed him from his helmet; but his eyes were still closed, and the wound ghastly, for such had been the force of the blow, that the shoulder was well-nigh severed from the collarbone.  “Reginald!  O brother, look up!” cried Eustace.  “O Gaston, does he live?”

“I have crossed swords with him before,” said the prisoner.  “I grieve for the mishap.”  Then, as the soldiers crowded round, he waved them off with a gesture of command, which they instinctively obeyed.  “Back, clowns, give him air.  And here—­one of you—­bring some water from the river.  There, he shows signs of life.”

As he spoke, the clattering of horses’ feet was heard—­all made way, and there rode along the bank of the river a band of Spaniards, headed by Pedro himself, his sword, from hilt to point, streaming with blood, and his countenance ferocious as that of a tiger.  “Where is he?” was his cry; “where is the traitor Enrique?  I will send him to join the rest of the brood.  Where has he hidden himself?”

The prisoner, who had been assisting to life the wounded man out of the path of the trampling horses, turned round, and replied, with marked emphasis, “King Henry of Castile is, thanks to our Lady, safe on the other side of the Zadorra, to recover his throne another day.”

“Du Guesclin himself!  Ah, dog!” cried Pedro, his eyes glaring with the malignity of a demon, and raising his bloody weapon to hew down Bertrand du Guesclin, for no other was the prisoner, who stood with folded arms, his dark eyes fixed in calm scorn on the King’s face, and his sword and axe lying at his feet.

Eustace was instantly at his side, calling out, “My Lord King, he is my prisoner!”

“Thine!” said Pedro, with an incredulous look.  “Leave him to my vengeance, and thou shalt have gold—­half my treasury—­all thy utmost wishes can reach—­”

“I give him up to none but my Lord the Prince of Wales,” returned the young Squire, undauntedly.

“Fool and caitiff! out of my path! or learn what it is to oppose the wrath of Kings!” cried Pedro.