“What mean you by that, Sir Fulk de Clarenham?” cried Gaston; “for what do you take me and my word?”

“Certain tales of you and your companions, Sir Squire,” answered Clarenham, “do not dispose me to take a Gascon’s word for more than it is worth.”

“This passes!” cried Gaston, striking his fist on the table; “you venture it because you are not of my degree!  Here, ye craven Squires, will not one of you take up my glove, when I cast back in his teeth your master’s foul slander of an honourable Esquire?”

“Touch it not, I command you,” said Clarenham, “unless Master d’Aubricour will maintain that he never heard of a certain one-eyed Basque, and never rode on a free-booting foray with the robber Knight, Perduccas d’Albret.”

“What of that?” fiercely cried Gaston.

“Quite enough, Sir Squire,” said Fulk, coolly.

Gaston was about to break into a tempest of rage, when Eustace’s calm voice and gesture checked him.

“Sir Fulk,” said Eustace, “were you at Bordeaux, you would know that no man’s word can be esteemed more sacred, or his character more high, than that of Gaston d’Aubricour.”

“But in the meantime,” said Clarenham, “we must be content to take that, as well as much besides, on your own assertion, Sir Eustace.  Once more, Master Leonard Ashton, let me hear your testimony, as to the dying words of Sir Reginald Lynwood.  I am content to abide by them.”

“Come, Leonard,” said his father, who had been whispering with him all this time, “speak up; you may be grieved to disappoint a once-friendly companion, but you could not help the defect of your ears.”

“Sir Philip, I pray you not to prompt your son,” said Eustace.  “Stand forth, Leonard, on your honour.  Did you or did you not hear the words of my brother, as he lay on the bank of the Zadorra?”

Leonard half rose, as if to come towards him, but his father held him fast; he looked down, and muttered, “Ay, truly, I heard Sir Reginald say somewhat.”

“Tell it out, then.”

“He thanked the Prince for knighting you—­he prayed him to have charge of his wife and child—­he bade Gaston not to return to evil courses,” said Leonard, bringing out his sentences at intervals.

“And afterwards,” said Eustace sternly—­“when the Prince was gone?  On your honour, Leonard.”

Leonard almost writhed himself beneath the eyes that Eustace kept steadily fixed on him.  “Somewhat—­somewhat he might have said of knightly training for his son—­but—­but what do I know?” he added, as his father pressed hard on his foot; “it was all in your ear, for as he lay on your breast, his voice grew so faint, that I could hear little through my helmet.”

“Nay, Master Ashton,” said John Ingram, pressing forward, “if I remember right, you had thrown off your helmet, saying it was as hot as a copper cauldron; and besides, our good Knight, when he said those words touching Master Arthur, raised himself up somewhat, and spoke out louder, as if that we might all hear and bear witness.”