and coming down
into the clay of the Weald. It was a wretched, rutted mule-track running
through thick forests with occasional clearings in which lay the small
Kentish villages, where rude shock-headed peasants with smocks and
galligaskins stared with bold, greedy eyes at the travelers. Once on the
right they caught a distant view of the Towers of Penshurst, and once
they heard the deep tolling of the bells of Bayham Abbey, but for the
rest of their day's journey savage peasants and squalid cottages were
all that met their eyes, with endless droves of pigs who fed upon the
litter of acorns. The throng of travelers who crowded the old road
were all gone, and only here and there did they meet or overtake some
occasional merchant or messenger bound for Battle Abbey, Pevensey Castle
or the towns of the south.

That night they slept in a sordid inn, overrun with rats and with fleas,
one mile south of the hamlet of Mayfield. Aylward scratched vigorously
and cursed with fervor. Nigel lay without movement or sound. To the man
who had learned the old rule of chivalry there were no small ills in
life. It was beneath the dignity of his soul to stoop to observe them.
Cold and heat, hunger and thirst, such things did not exist for the
gentleman. The armor of his soul was so complete that it was proof not
only against the great ills of life but even against the small ones; so
the flea-bitten Nigel lay grimly still while Aylward writhed upon his
couch.

They were now but a short distance from their destination; but they had
hardly started on their journey through the forest next morning, when an
adventure befell them which filled Nigel with the wildest hopes.

Along the narrow winding path between the great oak trees there rode
a dark sallow man in a scarlet tabard who blew so loudly upon a silver
trumpet that they heard the clanging call long before they set eyes on
him. Slowly he advanced, pulling up every fifty paces to make the forest
ring with another warlike blast. The comrades rode forward to meet him.

"I pray you," said Nigel, "to tell me who you are and why you blow upon
this trumpet."

The fellow shook his head, so Nigel repeated the question in French, the
common language of chivalry, spoken at that age by every gentleman in
Western Europe.

The man put his lips to the trumpet and blew another long note before he
answered. "I am Gaston de Castrier," said he, "the humble Squire of
the most worthy and valiant knight R