“A noble eyrie!” said Eustace, looking up and measuring it with his eye.  “Too noble to be sacrificed to the snaring of one poor Knight.”

“Shame that such a knightly building should serve for such a nest of traitors!” said Gaston.  “Saving treachery, a dozen boys could keep it against a royal host, provided they had half the spirit of your little nephew.”

“Let us summon the said traitors,” said Eustace, blowing a blast on his bugle.  The gates were thrown wide open, the drawbridge lowered, and beneath the portcullis stood the Seneschal, his bunch of keys at his girdle.  Both Eustace and Gaston cast searching glances upon him, and his aspect made them for a moment doubt the truth of the warning.  A patch covered the lost eye, his moustache was shaved, his hair appeared many shades lighter, as well as his beard, which had been carefully trimmed, and altogether the obsequious Seneschal presented a strong contrast to the dissolute reckless man-at-arms.  The Knight debated with himself, whether to let him perceive that he was recognized; and deciding to watch his conduct, he asked by what name to address him.

“Thibault Sanchez,” replied Le Borgne Basque, giving his real name, which he might safely do, as it was not known to above two men in the whole Duchy of Aquitaine.  “Thibault Sanchez, so please you, noble Sir, a poor Squire from the mountains, who hath seen some few battles and combats in his day, but never one equal to the fight of Najara, where your deeds of prowess—­”

“My deeds of prowess, Sir Seneschal, had better rest in silence until our horses have been disposed of, and I have made the rounds of the Castle before the light fails us.”

“So late, Sir Knight! and after a long and weary journey?  Surely you will drink a cup of wine, and take a night’s rest first, relying on me, who, though I be a plain man, trust I understand somewhat of the duties of mine office.”

“I sleep not until I have learnt what is committed to my charge,” replied the Knight.  “Lead the way, Master Sanchez.”

“Ah! there is what it is to have a Knight of fame,” cried Le Borgne Basque.  “What vigilance! what earnestness!  Ah, this will be, as I told my comrades even now, the very school of chivalry, the pride of the country.”

They had by this time crossed the narrow court, and passing beneath a second portcullised door defended on either side by high battlement walls, nearly double as thick as the steps themselves were wide.  At the head was an arched door, heavily studded with nails, and opening into the Castle hall, a gloomy, vaulted room, its loop-hole windows, in their mighty depth of wall, affording little light.  A large wood fire was burning in the hearth, and its flame cast a bright red light on some suits of armour that were hung at one end of the hall, as well as on some benches, and a long table in the midst, where were placed some trenchers, drinking horns, and a flask or two of wine.