model of the king's new castle at windsor--these were a
few of the strange dishes which faced him. an archer had brought
him a change of clothes from the cog, and he had already, with
the elasticity of youth, shaken off the troubles and fatigues of
the morning. a page from the inner banqueting-hall had come with
word that their master intended to drink wine at the lodgings of
the lord chandos that night, and that he desired his squires to
sleep at the hotel of the "half moon" on the rue des apotres.
thither then they both set out in the twilight after the long
course of juggling tricks and glee-singing with which the
principal meal was concluded.
a thin rain was falling as the two youths, with their cloaks over
their heads, made their way on foot through the streets of the
old town, leaving their horses in the royal stables. an
occasional oil lamp at the corner of a street, or in the portico
of some wealthy burgher, threw a faint glimmer over the shining
cobblestones, and the varied motley crowd who, in spite of the
weather, ebbed and flowed along every highway. in those
scattered circles of dim radiance might be seen the whole busy
panorama of life in a wealthy and martial city. here passed the
round-faced burgher, swollen with prosperity, his sweeping dark-
clothed gaberdine, flat velvet cap, broad leather belt and
dangling pouch all speaking of comfort and of wealth. behind him
his serving wench, her blue whimple over her head, and one hand
thrust forth to bear the lanthorn which threw a golden bar of
light along her master's path. behind them a group of
swaggering, half-drunken yorkshire dalesmen, speaking a dialect
which their own southland countrymen could scarce comprehend,
their jerkins marked with the pelican, which showed that they had
come over in the train of the north-country stapletons. the
burgher glanced back at their fierce faces and quickened his
step, while the girl pulled her whimple closer round her, for
there was a meaning in their wild eyes, as they stared at the
purse and the maiden, which men of all tongues could understand.
then came archers of the guard, shrill-voiced women of the camp,
english pages with their fair skins and blue wondering eyes,
dark-robed friars, lounging men-at-arms, swarthy loud-tongued
gascon serving-men, seamen from the river, rude peasants of the
medoc, and becloaked and befeathered squires of the court, all
jostling and pushing in an ever-changing, many-colored stream,
while english, french, welsh, basque, and the varied dialects of
gascony and guienne filled the air with their babel. from time
to time the throng would be burst asunder and a lady's horse-
litter would trot past towards the abbey, or there would come a
knot of torch-bearing archers walking in front of gascon baron or
english knight, as he sought his lodgings after the palace
revels. clatter of hoofs, clinking of weapons, shouts {rom the
drunken brawlers, and high laughter of women, they all rose up,
like the mist from a marsh, out of the crowded streets of the
dim-lit city.
one couple out of the moving throng especially engaged the
attention of the two young squires, the more so as they were
going in their own direction and immediately in front of them.
they consisted of a man and a girl, the former very tall with
rounded shoulders, a limp of one foot, and a large flat object
covered with dark cloth under his arm. his companion was young
and straight, with a quick, elastic step and graceful bearing,
though so swathed in a black mantle that little could be seen of
her face save a flash of dark eyes and a curve of raven hair.
the tall man leaned heavily upon her to take the weight off his
tender foot, while he held his burden betwixt himself and the
wall, cuddling it jealously to his side, and thrusting forward
his young companion to act as a buttress whenever the pressure of
the crowd threatened to bear him away. the evident anxiety of
the man, the appearance of his attendant, and the joint care with
which they defended their concealed possession, excited the
interest of the two young englishmen who walked within hand-touch
of them.
"courage, child!" they heard the tall man exclaim in strange
hybrid french. "if we can win another sixty paces we are safe."
"hold it safe, father," the other answered, in the same soft,
mincing dialect. "we have no cause for fear,"
"verily, they are heathens and barbarians," cried the man; "mad,
howling, drunken barbarians! forty more paces, tita mia, and i
swear to the holy eloi, patron of all learned craftsmen, that i
will never set foot over my door again until the whole swarm are
safely hived in their camp of dax, or wherever else they curse
with their presence. twenty more paces, my treasure: ah, my god!
how they push and brawl! get in their way, tita mia! put your
lit
本文链接:
http://m.picdg.com/38_38017/5748647.html