“I trust, my Lord, that you have never had occasion to deem less honourably of me,” said Eustace; and his clear open eye and brow courted rather than shunned the keen look of scrutiny that the Prince fixed upon him.  His heart leapt at the hope that the time for inquiry was come, but the Prince in another moment sank his eyes again, with more, however, of the weary impatience of illness than of actual displeasure, and merely replied, “Kneel down, then, Sir Knight, and take the oaths of fidelity.”

Eustace obeyed, hardly able to suppress a sigh at the disappointment of his hopes.

“You will receive the necessary orders and supplies from Sir John Chandos, and from the Treasurer,” said Edward, in a tone that intimated the conclusion of the conference; and Eustace quitted his presence, scarce knowing whether to be rejoiced or dissatisfied.

The former, Gaston certainly was.  “I have often been heartily weary of garrison duty,” said he, “but never can I be more weary of aught, than of being looked upon askance by half the men I meet.  And we may sometimes hear the lark sing too, as well as the mouse squeak, Sir Eustace.  I know every pass of my native county, and the herds of Languedoc shall pay toll to us.”

Sir John Chandos, as Constable of Aquitaine, gave him the requisite orders and information.  The fortifications, he said, were in good condition, and the garrison already numerous; but a sum of money was allotted to him in order to increase their numbers as much as he should deem advisable, since it was not improbable that he might have to sustain a siege, as Oliver de Clisson was threatening that part of the frontier.  Four days were allowed for his preparations, after which he was to depart for his government.

Eustace was well pleased with all that he heard, and returned to his lodging, where, in the evening twilight, he was deeply engaged in consultation with Gaston, on the number of followers to be raised, when a light step was heard hastily approaching, and Arthur, darting into the room, flung himself on his neck, exclaiming, “Uncle! uncle! go not to this Castle!”

“Arthur, what brings you here?  What means this?  No foolish frolic, no escape from punishment, I trust?” said Eustace, holding him at some little distance, and fixing his eyes on him intently.

“No, uncle, no!  On the word of a true Knight’s son,” said the boy, stammering, in his eagerness, “believe me, trust me, dear uncle—­ and go not to this fearful Castle.  It is a trap—­a snare laid to be your death, by the foulest treachery!”

“Silence, Arthur!” said the Knight, sternly.  “Know you not what treason you speak?  Some trick has been played on your simplicity, and yet you—­child as you are—­should as soon think shame of your own father as of the Prince, the very soul of honour.”

“Oh, it is not the Prince:  he knows nought of it; it is those double traitors, the Baron of Clarenham and Sir Leonard Ashton, who have worked upon him and deceived him.”