fts which have been vouchsafed to my wife," said Du
Guesclin, "there is the wondrous one of seeing into the future; but it
comes very seldom upon her, and goes as quickly, for none can command
it. The blessed hour of sight, as she hath named it, has come but twice
since I have known her, and I can vouch for it that all that she hath
told me was true, for on the evening of the Battle of Auray she said
that the morrow would be an ill day for me and for Charles of Blois.
Ere the sun had sunk again he was dead, and I the prisoner of Sir John
Chandos. Yet it is not every question that she can answer, but only
those----"

"Bertrand, Bertrand!" cried the lady in the same mutterings far-away
voice, "the blessed hour passes. Use it, Bertrand, while you may."

"I will, my sweet. Tell me, then, what fortune comes upon me?"

"Danger, Bertrand--deadly, pressing danger--which creeps upon you and
you know it not."

The French soldier burst into a thunderous laugh, and his green eyes
twinkled with amusement. "At what time during these twenty years would
not that have been a true word?" he cried. "Danger is in the air that I
breathe. But is this so very close, Tiphaine?"

"Here--now--close upon you!" The words came out in broken, strenuous
speech, while the lady's fair face was writhed and drawn like that of
one who looks upon a horror which strikes, the words from her lips. Du
Guesclin gazed round the tapestried room, at the screens, the tables,
the abace, the credence, the buffet with its silver salver, and the
half-circle of friendly, wondering faces. There was an utter stillness,
save for the sharp breathing of the Lady Tiphaine and for the gentle
soughing of the wind outside, which wafted to their ears the distant
call upon a swine-herd's horn.

"The danger may bide," said he, shrugging his broad shoulders. "And now,
Tiphaine, tell us what will come of this war in Spain."

"I can see little," she answered, straining her eyes and puckering her
brow, as one who would fain clear her sight. "There are mountains, and
dry plains, and flash of arms and shouting of battle-cries. Yet it is
whispered to me that by failure you will succeed."

"Ha! Sir Nigel, how like you that?" quoth Bertrand, shaking his head.
"It is like mead and vinegar, half sweet, half sour. And is there no
question which you would ask my lady?"

"Certes there is. I would fain know, fair lady, how all things are at
Twynham Castle, and above all how my sweet lad