hat, hose, doublet and cloak, so that nothing remained save a
pink jupon and pair of silken drawers. At the same time Aylward was
hastily unbuckling the load with the intention of handing his master
his armor piece by piece, when the Squire gave one last challenging peal
from his silver trumpet into the very ear of the spare horse.

In an instant it had taken to its heels, the precious armor upon its
back, and thundered away down the road which they had traversed. Aylward
jumped upon his mare, drove his prick spurs into her sides and galloped
after the runaway as hard as he could ride. Thus it came about that in
an instant Nigel was shorn of all his little dignity, had lost his two
horses, his attendant and his outfit, and found himself a lonely and
unarmed man standing in his shirt and drawers upon the pathway down
which the burly figure of the Lord of Pons was slowly advancing.

The knight errant, whose mind had been filled by the thought of the
maiden whom he had left behind at St. Jean--the same whose glove dangled
from his helmet--had observed nothing that had occurred. Hence, all that
met his eyes was a noble yellow horse, which was tethered by the
track, and a small young man, who appeared to be a lunatic since he
had undressed hastily in the heart of the forest, and stood now with an
eager anxious face clad in his underlinen amid the scattered debris
of his garments. Of such a person the high Lord of Pons could take no
notice, and so he pursued his inexorable way, his arrogant eyes looking
out into the distance and his thoughts set intently upon the maiden of
St. Jean. He was dimly aware that the little crazy man in the undershirt
ran a long way beside him in his stockings, begging, imploring and
arguing.

"Just one hour, most fair sir, just one hour at the longest, and a poor
Squire of England shall ever hold himself your debtor! Do but condescend
to rein your horse until my harness comes back to me! Will you not stoop
to show me some small deed of arms? I implore you, fair sir, to spare me
a little of your time and a handstroke or two ere you go upon your way!"

Lord de Pons motioned impatiently with his gauntleted hand, as one might
brush away an importunate fly, but when at last Nigel became desperate
in his clamor he thrust his spurs into his great war-horse, and clashing
like a pair of cymbals he thundered off through the forest. So he
rode upon his majestic way, until two days later he was slain by Lord