A Maid of Brittany. Mabel Winifred Knowles

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      CHAPTER I

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      "A spy—a French spy! tiens, monsieur! but it is assured." The speaker, a man of about thirty years of age, dressed in hunting costume, was standing by his horse's side, looking down, with flushed face and knitted brows, upon a figure which lay stretched on the ground before him, the figure of a man also young, but even in unconsciousness of far more prepossessing appearance than he who stood frowning over him. Gathered at a short distance and watching the scene with keen interest stood a hawking party, fresh from their chase, and consisting of a broad-shouldered, handsome old man of some seventy summers, a young girl, whose beautiful face wore a compassionate look as she bent forward on her palfrey to catch a glimpse at the unconscious stranger, and several attendants bearing trophies of the chase, and carrying hooded falcons on their wrists.

      "Nay, then, Guillaume," interposed the girl, before her father could reply, "but wherefore such assurance? Surely he is no spy, for see, the golden spurs upon his heels proclaim his knighthood."

      "Ay," replied her cousin mockingly, as he pointed to a horse standing with bent head and distended nostrils by the prostrate man's side. "As plainly, fair cousin, as yonder steed's docked ears and mane proclaim him Brittany's enemy."[#]

      [#] It was the fashion at the time for French knights to cut off their horse's ears and manes, as also never to ride mares.

      There was a sparkle of indignation in the girl's eyes as she turned to her father.

      "At least," she urged, as if pleading against some unspoken verdict, "we judge no man unheard. See, my father, there may be many explanations of his presence here; it is surely so, for assured I am that he is no spy. Nay, cousin, your wits are too keen in this case, for a spy would not thus proclaim his nationality, if a horse's mane speaks so plainly."

      "Tush, Gwennola!" reproved her father with a smile. "This is no matter for woman's interference that thou shouldst argue like a wandering scholar. Still, there is fairness in what thou sayest, and I would lief tender mercy with justice even to a Frenchman, though, if he be a spy, by the bones of St. Yves, he shall hang as fast as any acorn to the nearest oak."

      So saying, and in spite of his kinsman's obvious disapproval, he ordered two of his servants to dismount and raise the unconscious object of their argument.

      It was clear that a fall from his horse had stunned the stranger, and the cause was not far to seek in the twisted roots of the trees partly concealed by grass and fern, which might well prove dangerous to an unwary rider.

      As they raised him the young man moaned, half opening his dark eyes, then closing them again in a fresh swoon.

      "He is hurt," said Gwennola compassionately. "See, he groans again: be careful how thou liftest him, Job. Yes—on thy shoulders—so, and bid them prepare the eastern room for his reception: I will myself attend to his hurts when I return."

      "A good Samaritan, fair mistress," observed her cousin with a sneer, as he vaulted again into his saddle. "Yet, be warned, lest the hand that nourishes it is bitten by the viper of treachery."

      "Nay," said her father, with a smile towards his daughter, "Gwennola is right, though over-forward for a maid, due, I fear me, to her old father's spoiling. Is it not so, my Nola? Methinks the stranger were best left to Father Ambrose's ministrations, so there shall be the less fear of the truth of Guillaume's ill prophecies."

      Gwennola allowed her palfrey to draw even closer to her father's steed as she raised a smiling face to his.

      "Nay, my father," she said tenderly. "'Tis but that I love justice as thou dost, and, moreover, my heart tells me that yon poor knight, even if he be a Frenchman, is no spy."

      "Nevertheless," said her father sternly, "a Frenchman is the enemy of the Breton; he comes not by chance to the forest of Arteze, my child, and, though I fail not in hospitality to a sick man, yet scant welcome will the servant of the King of France find under the roof of a soldier of the Duchess Anne."

      "Better the welcome of the halter for the spy, without more ado," said Guillaume de Coray with a malicious smile.