ble to rise and walk across the chamber, though still
very weak. But news came that a great battle between the French and the
Spaniards was likely soon to be fought, and the brave Bayard burned with
warlike desire to take part in the conflict.

"My dear friend," he said to the surgeon, "tell me if there is any
danger in setting me on the march. It seems to me that I am well, or
nearly so; and, in my judgment, to stay here longer will do me more harm
than good, for I fret sorely to be thus tied."

"Your wound is not yet closed," said the surgeon, "though it is quite
healed inside. After another dressing you may be able to ride, provided
that your barber attends to dressing it with ointment and a little lint
every day. The worst of the wound is now on the surface, and, as it will
not touch your saddle, you will run no risk in riding."

Bayard heard these words with gladness, and at once gave orders to his
people to prepare for the road, as he would set out for the army in two
days.

Meanwhile, his host and hostess and their children were far from well at
ease. Until now their guest had protected and spared them, but they knew
too well the habits of soldiers to imagine that he intended to do this
without being abundantly paid for the service. They held themselves as
his prisoners, and feared that he might yet force them to ransom
themselves with the utmost sum their estate would afford, perhaps ten or
twelve thousand crowns. Yet he had been so gentle and kindly that the
good lady entertained hopes that he might prove generous, if softened by
a suitable present. Therefore, on the morning of the day which he had
fixed for his departure, she appeared in his chamber, followed by a
servant who carried a small steel box.

Bayard had been walking up and down the room to try his leg, and had now
thrown himself into a chair to rest. The lady fell upon her knees before
him; but before he would permit her to speak he insisted that she should
rise and be seated.

"My lord," she began, "I can never be thankful enough for the grace
which God did me, at the taking of this town, in directing you to this
our house. We owe to you our lives and all that we hold dear. Moreover,
from the time that you arrived here, neither I nor the least of my
people have endured a single insult, but all has been good-will and
courtesy, nor have your folks taken a farthing's worth of our goods
without paying for them. I am aware that my husband, myself,