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"And left him lying. Then the surrender was not complete, and by the laws of war the ransom goes to Denis de Morbecque, if his story be true." "It is true," said the King. "He was the second." "Then the ransom is yours, Denis. But for my part I swear by my father's soul that I had rather have the honor this Squire has gathered than all the richest ransoms of France."
We did not leave that train until we were well within sound of the guns, and then disentrained at a small village named Morbecque. We went into tents in a farmyard, and the very first evening began to make acquaintances among the villagers. The Huns had only been there a day or two in their march on Paris, and during that time the inhabitants had made themselves scarce.
"A German aeroplane with one passenger and pilot being encountered over Poperinghe, we followed to Morbecque and then to Armentières. The passenger of the B.E. fired 40 rounds from his rifle and the German passenger replied with some rounds from his revolver. The B.E. crossed the bows of the German machine to permit the pilot to use his revolver.
When in the elegant prosopopoeia which closes the éloge, the King of England has recalled with arrogance the fatal day of Poitiers, ought he not instantly to have restrained that pride within just limits? ought he not to have cast a hasty glance on the components of the Black Prince's army? to examine whether a body of troops, starting from Bordeaux, recruiting in Guienne, did not contain more Gascons than English? whether France, now bounded by its natural limits, in its magnificent unity, would not have a right, every thing being examined, to consider that battle almost as an event of civil war? ought he not, in short, to have pointed out, in order to corroborate his remarks, that the knight to whom King John surrendered himself, Denys de Morbecque, was a French officer banished from Artois?
The king was surrounded by assailants, of whom some did and some did not know him, and all of whom kept shouting, "Yield you! yield you! else you die." The banner of France fell at his side; for Geoffrey de Charny was slain. Denis de Morbecque, a knight of St. Omer, made his way up to the king, and said to him, in good French, "Sir, sir, I pray you, yield!"
"To whom shall I yield me?" said John: where is my cousin, the Prince of Wales?" "Sir, yield you to me; I will bring you to him." "Who are you?" "Denis de Morbecque, a knight of Artois; I serve the King of England, not being able to live in the kingdom of France, for I have lost all I possessed there."
Who is this tall knight who can scarce keep his hands from the King's shoulder?" "It is Denis de Morbecque, my lord, a knight of St. Omer, who is in our service, being an outlaw from France." "I call him to mind. How then, Sir Denis? What say you in this matter?" "He gave himself to me, fair lord. He had fallen in the press, and I came upon him and seized him.
"To whom shall I yield?" asked the king. "Where is my cousin, the prince of Wales?" "He is not here, sir. Yield, and I will bring you to him." "And who are you?" "I am Denis of Morbecque, a knight of Artois. I serve the English king, for I am banished from France, and all I had has been forfeited." "Then I yield me to you," said the king, handing him his right gauntlet.
Strange to say, this feeling of security left me only on the night I was wounded, many months later. But of that in its proper place. When we left Morbecque, the whole of the inhabitants turned out to bid us farewell. Many of the women wept, and though we had only been there a week, we felt we were leaving old friends.
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