Chapter II

While the pilgrim was engaged in his recital, one of the guests at the head of the festal board had listened with peculiar eagerness. He was a knight, tall and finely limbed, and attired with pointed elegance and taste. His pourpoint was barred with gold, and deep fringes of the same precious metal adorned its borders. His face was swarthy from exposure, though classical in contour, and eminently handsome in expression. His lips curled proudly, his nostrils were thin, and in every feature might be traced the unmistakable tokens of pride and sensuality. His seat was by the side of Joan, and he was assiduous in his efforts to please her-performing for her all those knightly devoirs which the gallant age of chivalry required.

The eye of the palmer had more than once, during his narration, been fastened upon this handsome knight, with incomprehensible significance, and particularly as he spoke of the attempt of the Templar to ride over the prostrate champion of Zelica, did his large orbs cast upon the richly attired guest a look of mingled scorn and anger, which, had it been observed by the host or the other guests, would have tasked the skill of the greatest Odipus among them to divine.

"Pass round the flagon! Let the wassail begin!" shouted the jovial Percy Du Bois.

Joan retired to her chamber with her maids, and the revel began. The board groaned with the good cheer, and as the wine flowed more freely, the constant potations of the generous liquor began to have its effect upon the hilarity of the guests. They began to display unusual license, in their songs and conversation. Broad jests went round, and the hall commenced resounding with the shouts of an incipient revel. Seizing a flagon of foaming Burgundy, the knight of the gold embroidered pourpoint quaffed it to the lovely Joan Du Bois. The health was received with a general uproar of approval, and wassail was drunk to many other fair dames, by the rest of the revellers.

"'Destruction and death to the cowardly Templar, who battles against defenceless maids and unhorsed knights!"

As the palmer uttered this, he turned to see if all were emptying their flagons. Every one except the proud knight had quaffed his goblet to the dregs with peculiar satisfaction, and a yell of approbation. His stood untasted upon the board, and his eyes glared fiercely upon the palmer as their gazes met.

"Knew you personally this Knight Templar of whom you speak?" he asked.

"I did," replied the pilgrim, "and I owe him a debt which Heaven will yet afford me the means of repaying!"

The scowl upon the other's brow became more savage and lowering. He moved his position, and placing himself by the palmer's side, uttered in a low tone in his ear:

"Conrad D'Amboise, I know you, in spite of your disguise! Beware how you interfere with me or mine!"

Without waiting for a reply, he strode haughtily from the hall.

The revel was long protracted. At length the effect of the frequent libations began to show itself, and one by one the wassailers dropped unconsciously upon their benches, or staggering left the apartment for their own chambers, until the palmer, who was Conrad D'Amboise in disguise, remained the sole sensible occupant of the banquet hall. He sat silent and thoughtful, by the reeking board, listening to the murmur of the wind, as it sighed among the boughs of the trees in the adjacent forest of Ardennes. His mind was dwelling upon the events of the evening-the fierce demeanor of the knight-his insolent defiance-and his marked penchant for the lovely and sole heiress of the honors of the house of Du Bois. The hall was silent, not a sound broke the solemn stillness. The lamps gave forth a flickering light, and the vapor of the spilled wine poured up from the steaming table, and diffused itself throughout the room. Suddenly the harsh creaking of iron was borne audibly to his cars. The disguised knight was on his feet in an instant. He listened, and the same rough, grating noise was heard again distinctly--apparently issuing from the corridor which led to the outer portal. Conrad divested himself of his palmer's gown, and drawing his sword, opened the door of the banqueting-hall, and stood in the corridor. Cautiously he proceeded, and silently, until on arriving within a few yards of the castle entrance, the cause of the grating sounds which he had heard was apparent to him.

The outer door stood thrown wide open, and the night wind was swinging it back and forth upon its rusty hinges, producing most mournful melody. Surprised at so unusual a circumstance, he approached the portal, and looked out into the courtyard. Before him upon the pavement were a dozen mailed warriors, mounted, armed to the teeth, and motionless as statues. The pale moon shone upon their polished helms and corselets, giving them a most spectre like and supernatural appearance. They stood directly before the arched barbacan, which formed the entrance to the court, and appeared waiting for the warder, to lower the drawbridge over the moat, for their exit. Without expressing any astonishment at the strange scene thus presented to him, Conrad D'Amboise glided from his post, and favored by the shadows of the frowning battlements, gained a postern in an angle of the wall, and stealthily left the court.

Above a quarter of an hour had elapsed after his departure, when the perfidious knight who had confronted him at the banquet, issued from the unclosed portal, bearing in his arms the drooping form of Joan Du Bois. Striding hastily across the pavement, and putting himself at the head of the armed men in the court, he hailed the warder at the gate.

"Ho, there! Lower the drawbridge and give us exit!"

The bolts were drawn, and the chains clanked, as the bridge came rattling down across the gloomy pass.

"On! Spare not the spur!" and suiting the action to the word, the knight drove his spurrowels deep into his horse's flanks. With a single vault the steed cleared the ditch, and as he came down upon his feet, stood front to front with a horseman in armor as black as night. By his side rode Conrad D'Amboise, and in the rear was a small retinue led by a mounted lady.

"Stand! thou stain upon knight-errantry, thou curse of Templars, and receive thy just reward!" shouted the sable knight, while his blade flashed in the moonbeams.

Paralyzed with astonishment, the false Templar slowly drew his weapon, while the followers of both knights drew back to watch the combat. Delivering the senseless Joan Du Bois to a retainer, the Templar knight plunged fiercely down upon his opponent, cutting left and right at his visor and corselet, in his progress. The black warrior parried the murderous strokes with infinite skill, and as his antagonist was employed in drawing his rein to check his steed, dealt him a blow upon the bridle arm, which split his mail and caused his limb to drop useless by his side. Infuriated with pain, and bursting with the conflict of all the savage passions of his nature, the Templar now struck with the ferocity of a madman. Blows were hailed down with most fearful vigor upon the armor of both, and great chips of steel were struck sparkling from the polished mail. Clang! Clang!-now the black champion is about to hurl his sword with awful force against the Templar's shoulder-the false villain's horse becomes unmanageable-he rushes forward towards Conrad D'Amboise, whirling his sword wildly in the air. '

"Zelica!" he shouts, with a horrid yell of astonishment, as he recognized the mounted lady. "Ha! upon one I can at least take vengeance!" And he is about to transfix her with his hacked and broken weapon, when a powerful arm intercepts his progress, and Conrad's good sword drinks his life blood, through a cleft in his gorget.

It is the morning after the just punishment of the Knight Templar, before the gates of the castle of Percy Du Bois. Within a little boudoir which looks out upon the cool shades of the forest of Ardennes, sit four happy beings. They are Joan and the sable knight, and Conrad D'Amboise with Zelica. The fair faces of the maidens glow with blushes of pleasure, and the knights shine in the perfection of manly beauty. The hand of Joan is clasped within the palm of the dark hero-for she is his betrothed-and she gazes into his noble face, with a look of love and trust that would have made St. Anthony forswear his vows.

"Will you renounce crusading henceforth?"

"I must."

"You must?"

"The magic of your eyes is more potent than the cup of Circe or the song of the Syren. It would be useless to attempt to evade it, as it would have been for any mortal but the Ithacan hero to escape the Circean wiles. But trust me, my fair and true Joan, I would never attempt to leave thee, even were it possible."

Joan hid her blushing face in his bosom. She was perfectly happy. She had waited long, and her fidelity had been rewarded.

[FROM "THE FLAG OF OUR UNION."]

THE AUSTRALIAN FOOTMAN.

BY JAMES DE MILLE.