So he was thinking, and the door of his tent was darkened for a moment,
so that he looked up. There stood one of Queen Eleanor's attendant
knights, in tunic and hose, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other
holding his round cap in the act of salutation. He was a Gascon, of
middle height, spare and elastic as a steel blade, dark as a Moor, with
fiery eyes and thin black mustaches that stuck up like a cat's
whiskers. His manner was exaggerated, and he made great gestures, but
he was a true man and brave. Gilbert rose to meet him, and saw behind
him a soldier carrying something small and heavy on one shoulder,
steadying it with his hand.
"The Lord of Stoke?" the knight began in a tone of inquiry.
"If I had my own, sir," answered the Englishman, "but I have not. My
name is Gilbert Warde."
"Sir Gilbert--" began the Gascon, bowing again and waving the hand that
held his cap in a tremendous gesture, which ended on his heart as if to
express thanks for the information.
"No, sir," interrupted the other. "Of those who would have given me
knighthood I would not have it, and they of whom I would take it have
not offered it."
"Sir," answered the knight, courteously, "those of whom you speak
cannot have known you. I come from her Grace the Duchess of Gascony."
"The Duchess of, Gascony?" asked Gilbert, unaccustomed to the title.
The knight drew himself up till he seemed to be standing on his toes,
and his hand left his sword-hilt to give his mustache a fierce upward
twist.
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