-at-arms.

'Aha,' said the mail-clad knight, looking around him with restless,
glittering black eyes; 'if I am not mistaken it is a great man whom the
wind and waves have done me the honour to waft to my shores.--I am Guy,
Count of Ponthieu; and you, if I am not mistaken,' he said to Harold,
'are Earl Harold, brother-in-law to the King of England.'

'I thought so,' muttered Harold as he gravely inclined his head in
answer to the count; 'our troubles are only beginning.'

'This is not a fitting spot in which to receive the kinsman of King
Edward of England,' said Guy in mock courtesy. 'I must trouble you,
Sir, to come to my poor dwelling, where I hope a short stay may be
rendered as pleasant as possible to yourself and your followers.'

Harold groaned in spirit as he realised that the count was going to
keep him in prison in the hope of getting a ransom for him from King
Edward. With these sturdy men-at-arms in the doorway it was no use for
the unarmed Englishmen to try to resist.

'My poor countrymen,' said Harold to himself; 'I wonder how much money
he will force them to hand over before he consents to give me up? It
grieves me to think of the good English gold which will go to the
enriching of this greedy hawk.--And how is the kingdom going to be
governed in my absence?--Alack the day!'

The count's dark mocking face was all aglow with triumph as he led his
prisoner where some horses were ready waiting for them.

After a short ride they were in the courtyard of the grim frowning
castle of Ponthieu, with the drawbridge raised behind them.

'You will allow some of my men to go to England and tell King Edward
that I am here?' said Harold to the count.

Once more Guy smiled his mocking smile.

'I was going to ask the whole party to accept my hospitality for a few
weeks,' he said. 'His majesty of England will be the more pleased to
welcome his brother-in-law after he has lacked tidings of him for a
space.'

Harold fumed with anger and indignation. He saw that Guy meant to keep
the king and his own family in ignorance of his fate in order that they
might be more eager to ransom him once they heard that he was still
living.

But one day Guy, Count of Ponthieu, was in a very bad humour. He
strode up and down the courtyard with an angry scowl upon his handsome,
haughty face; muttering to himself and reading a letter which had been
brought to the castle by a mounted messenger. His mailed boots made a
noisy