The White Company & Sir Nigel (Illustrated Edition). Arthur Conan Doyle

than the same fair Edith, whose face had come so often betwixt him and his sleep. His blood rushed hot to his face at the sight, for fearless of all else, his spirit was attracted and yet daunted by the delicate mystery of woman. To his pure and knightly soul not Edith alone, but every woman, sat high and aloof, enthroned and exalted, with a thousand mystic excellencies and virtues which raised her far above the rude world of man. There was joy in contact with them; and yet there was fear, fear lest his own unworthiness, his untrained tongue or rougher ways should in some way break rudely upon this delicate and tender thing. Such was his thought as the white horse cantered toward him; but a moment later his vague doubts were set at rest by the frank voice of the young girl, who waved her whip in merry greeting.

      “Hail and well met, Nigel!” she cried. “Whither away this evening? Sure I am that it is not to see your friends of Cosford, for when did you ever don so brave a doublet for us? Come, Nigel, her name, that I may hate her for ever.”

      “Nay, Edith,” said the young Squire, laughing back at the laughing girl. “I was indeed coming to Cosford.”

      “Then we shall ride back together, for I will go no farther. How think you that I am looking?”

      Nigel’s answer was in his eyes as he glanced at the fair flushed face, the golden hair, the sparkling eyes and the daintily graceful figure set off in a scarlet-and-black riding-dress. “You are as fair as ever, Edith.”

      “Oh, cold of speech! Surely you were bred for the cloisters, and not for a lady’s bower, Nigel. Had I asked such a question from young Sir George Brocas or the Squire of Fernhurst, he would have raved from here to Cosford. They are both more to my taste than you are, Nigel.”

      “It is the worse for me, Edith,” said Nigel ruefully.

      “Nay, but you must not lose heart.”

      “Have I not already lost it?” said he.

      “That is better,” she cried, laughing. “You can be quick enough when you choose, Master Malapert. But you are more fit to speak of high and weary matters with my sister Mary. She will have none of the prattle and courtesy of Sir George, and yet I love them well. But tell me, Nigel, why do you come to Cosford to-night?”

      “To bid you farewell.”

      “Me alone?”

      “Nay, Edith, you and your sister Mary and the good knight your father.”

      “Sir George would have said that he had come for me alone. Indeed you are but a poor courtier beside him. But is it true, Nigel, that you go to France?”

      “Yes, Edith.”

      “It was so rumored after the King had been to Tilford. The story goes that the King goes to France and you in his train. Is that true?”

      “Yes, Edith, it is true.”

      “Tell me, then, to what part you go, and when?”

      “That, alas! I may not say.”

      “Oh, in sooth!” She tossed her fair head and rode onward in silence, with compressed lips and angry eyes.

      Nigel glanced at her in surprise and dismay. “Surely, Edith,” said he at last, “you have overmuch regard for my honor that you should wish me to break the word that I have given?”

      “Your honor belongs to you, and my likings belong to me,” said she. “You hold fast to the one, and I will do the same by the other.”

      They rode in silence through Thursley village. Then a thought came to her mind and in an instant her anger was forgotten and she was hot on a new scent.

      “What would you do if I were injured, Nigel? I have heard my father say that small as you are there is no man in these parts could stand against you. Would you be my champion if I suffered wrong?”

      “Surely I or any man of gentle blood would be the champion of any woman who had suffered wrong.”

      “You or any and I or any—what sort of speech is that? Is it a compliment, think you, to be mixed with a drove in that fashion? My question was of you and me. If I were wronged would you be my man?”

      “Try me and see, Edith!”

      “Then I will do so, Nigel. Either Sir George Brocas or the Squire of Fernhurst would gladly do what I ask, and yet I am of a mind, Nigel, to turn to you.”

      “I pray you to tell me what it is.”

      “You know Paul de la Fosse of Shalford?”

      “You mean the small man with the twisted back?”

      “He is no smaller than yourself, Nigel, and as to his back there are many folk that I know who would be glad to have his face.”

      “Nay, I am no judge of that, and I spoke out of no discourtesy. What of the man?”

      “He has flouted me, Nigel, and I would have revenge.”

      “What—on that poor twisted creature?”

      “I tell you that he has flouted me!”

      “But how?”

      “I should have thought that a true cavalier would have flown to my aid, withouten all these questions. But I will tell you, since I needs must. Know then that he was one of those who came around me and professed to be my own. Then, merely because he thought that there were others who were as dear to me as himself he left me, and now he pays court to Maude Twynham, the little freckle-faced hussy in his village.”

      “But how has this hurt you, since he was no man of thine?”

      “He was one of my men, was he not? And he has made game of me to his wench. He has told her things about me. He has made me foolish in her eyes. Yes, yes, I can read it in her saffron face and in her watery eyes when we meet at the church door on Sundays. She smiles—yes, smiles at me! Nigel, go to him! Do not slay him, nor even wound him, but lay his face open with thy riding-whip, and then come back to me and tell me how I can serve you.”

      Nigel’s face was haggard with the strife within, for desire ran hot in every vein, and yet reason shrank with horror. “By Saint Paul! Edith,” he cried, “I see no honor nor advancement of any sort in this thing which you have asked me to do. Is it for me to strike one who is no better than a cripple? For my manhood I could not do such a deed, and I pray you, dear lady, that you will set me some other task.”

      Her eyes flashed at him in contempt. “And you are a man-at-arms!” she cried, laughing in bitter scorn. “You are afraid of a little man who can scarce walk. Yes, yes, say what you will, I shall ever believe that you have heard of his skill at fence and of his great spirit, and that your heart has failed you! You are right, Nigel. He is indeed a perilous man. Had you done what I asked he would have slain you, and so you have shown your wisdom.”

      Nigel flushed and winced under the words, but he said no more, for his mind was fighting hard within him, striving to keep that high image of woman which seemed for a moment to totter on the edge of a fall. Together in silence, side by side, the little man and the stately woman, the yellow charger and the white jennet, passed up the sandy winding track with the gorse and the bracken head-high on either side. Soon a path branched off through a gateway marked with the boar-heads of the Buttesthorns, and there was the low widespread house heavily timbered, loud with the barking of dogs. The ruddy Knight limped forth with outstretched hand and roaring voice—

      “What how, Nigel! Good welcome and all hail! I had thought that you had given over poor friends like us, now that the King had made so much of you. The horses, varlets, or my crutch will be across you! Hush, Lydiard! Down, Pelamon! I can scarce hear my voice for your yelping. Mary, a cup of wine for young Squire Loring!”

      She stood framed in the doorway, tall, mystic, silent, with strange, wistful face and deep soul shining in her dark, questioning eyes. Nigel kissed the hand that she held out, and all his faith in woman and his reverence came back to him as he looked at her. Her sister had slipped behind her and her fair elfish face smiled