ck,
impatient stamp of their chargers, or the rattle of chamfron against
neck-plates as they tossed and strained. A spear's length in front of
them sat the spare and long-limbed figure of Black Simon, the Norwich
fighting man, his fierce, deep-lined face framed in steel, and the
silk guidon marked with the five scarlet roses slanting over his right
shoulder. All round, in the edge of the circle of the light, stood the
castle servants, the soldiers who were to form the garrison, and little
knots of women, who sobbed in their aprons and called shrilly to their
name-saints to watch over the Wat, or Will, or Peterkin who had turned
his hand to the work of war.

The young squire was leaning forward, gazing at the stirring and martial
scene, when he heard a short, quick gasp at his shoulder, and there was
the Lady Maude, with her hand to her heart, leaning up against the wall,
slender and fair, like a half-plucked lily. Her face was turned away
from him, but he could see, by the sharp intake of her breath, that she
was weeping bitterly.

"Alas! alas!" he cried, all unnerved at the sight, "why is it that you
are so sad, lady?"

"It is the sight of these brave men," she answered; "and to think how
many of them go and how few are like to find their way back. I have seen
it before, when I was a little maid, in the year of the Prince's great
battle. I remember then how they mustered in the bailey, even as they do
now, and my lady-mother holding me in her arms at this very window that
I might see the show."

"Please God, you will see them all back ere another year be out," said
he.

She shook her head, looking round at him with flushed cheeks and eyes
that sparkled in the lamp-light. "Oh, but I hate myself for being a
woman!" she cried, with a stamp of her little foot. "What can I do that
is good? Here I must bide, and talk and sew and spin, and spin and sew
and talk. Ever the same dull round, with nothing at the end of it. And
now you are going too, who could carry my thoughts out of these gray
walls, and raise my mind above tapestry and distaffs. What can I do? I
am of no more use or value than that broken bowstave."

"You are of such value to me," he cried, in a whirl of hot, passionate
words, "that all else has become nought. You are my heart, my life, my
one and only thought. Oh, Maude, I cannot live without you, I cannot
leave you without a word of love. All is changed to me since I have
known you. I am poor and lowly