"France might be burned before his eyes, yet
he would pray for his own soul rather than lift a hand for the lives of
others."
"We are as bad as he," retorted Gilbert, almost angrily, and moving
uneasily in his saddle as he felt himself powerless.
Dunstan did not answer at once, and he bit one side of his lower lip
nervously with his pointed teeth. Suddenly he stooped down and picked
up something against which his foot had struck as he moved. Gilbert
paid no attention to what he did.
"Do you wish to draw away the crowd so as to make room for the Queen?"
he asked.
"Of course I do!" Gilbert looked at his man inquiringly, though his
tone was harsh and almost angry. "We cannot cut a way for them through
the crowd," he added, looking before him again.
Dunstan laughed quietly.
"I will lay my life against a new tunic that I can make this multitude
spin on itself like a whipped top," he said. "But I admit that you
could not, sir."
"Why not?" asked Gilbert, instantly bending down in order to hear
better. "What can you do that I cannot?"
"What gentle blood could never do," replied the man, with a shade of
bitterness. "Shall I have the new tunic if I save the Lady Beatrix--and
the Queen of France?"
"Twenty! Anything you ask for! But be quick--"
Dunstan stooped again, and again picked up something from under his
foot.
"I am only a churl," he said as he stood upright again, "but I can risk
my life like you for a lady, and if I win, I would rather win a sword
than a bit of finery.
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