“Ay, ay,” answered Pontoys, “the boor to the booty, and the banner-man to the boor, a right pithy proverb. But, prithee, canst thou say why his pageship leads us not forward yet?”
“Pshaw!” answered Genvil, “the shake I gave him has addled his brains — or perchance he has not swallowed all his tears yet; sloth it is not, for ’tis a forward cockeril for his years, wherever honour is to be won.— See, they now begin to move.— Well, it is a singular thing this gentle blood, Stephen; for here is a child whom I but now baffled like a schoolboy, must lead us gray beards where we may get our heads broken, and that at the command of a light lady.”
“I warrant Sir Damian is secretary to my pretty lady,” answered Stephen Pontoys, “as this springald Amelot is to Sir Damian; and so we poor men must obey and keep our mouths shut.”
“But our eyes open, Stephen Pontoys — forget not that.”
They were by this time out of the gates of the castle, and upon the road leading to the village, in which, as they understood by the intelligence of the morning, Wenlock was besieged or blockaded by a greatly superior number of the insurgent commons. Amelot rode at the head of the troop, still embarrassed at the affront which he had received in presence of the soldiers, and lost in meditating how he was to eke out that deficiency of experience, which on former occasions had been supplied by the counsels of the banner-man, with whom he was ashamed to seek a reconciliation. But Genvil was not of a nature absolutely sullen, though a habitual grumbler. He rode up to the page, and having made his obeisance, respectfully asked him whether it were not well that some one or two of their number pricked forward upon good horses to learn how it stood with Wenlock, and whether they should be able to come up in time to his assistance.
“Methinks, banner-man,” answered Amelot, “you should take the ruling of the troop, since you know so fittingly what should be done. You may be the fitter to command, because — But I will not upbraid you.”
“Because I know so ill how to obey,” replied Genvil; “that is what you would say; and, by my faith, I cannot deny but there may be some truth in it. But is it not peevish in thee to let a fair expedition be unwisely conducted, because of a foolish word or a sudden action?— Come, let it be peace with us.”
“With all my heart,” answered Amelot; “and I will send out an advanced party upon the adventure, as thou hast advised me.”
“Let it be old Stephen Pontoys and two of the Chester spears — he is as wily as an old fox, and neither hope nor fear will draw him a hairbreadth farther than judgment warrants.”
Amelot eagerly embraced the hint, and, at his command, Pontoys and two lances started forward to reconnoitre the road before them, and inquire into the condition of those whom they were advancing to succour. “And now that we are on the old terms, Sir Page,” said the banner-man, “tell me, if thou canst, doth not yonder fair lady love our handsome knight par amours? ”
“It is a false calumny,” said Amelot, indignantly; “betrothed as she is to his uncle, I am convinced she would rather die than have such a thought, and so would our master. I have noted this heretical belief in thee before now, Genvil, and I have prayed thee to check it. You know the thing cannot be, for you know they have scarce ever met.”
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