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A rumour of the possible arrival of the young millionaire had percolated despite Mr. Clisson's care, through the range of desks to the doorkeeper, who without discernible reasons had expected some time in the day a procession of black coats and grave men to appear from the doors of the lift and with formal solemnity to proceed to the closely locked door of that remote silent office.

Seeing that he was now too late, because of De Clisson's sortie, Charles of Blois recalled his army from the attack, in which he could only have suffered heavily from the arrows of the archers and the missiles from the walls.

"One of whom sold yon violet twist, the illest stuff that ever threaded needle? He had need be 'shamed of himself. Ay: well?" "Dame, he was no pedlar at all, but Sir Roland de Pencouet, a knight of Bretagne." "Ha! one of Oliver Clisson's following, or I err. Ay?" A look of intense interest had driven out the usual weary listlessness in the black eyes.

Le Borgne Basque knows them all, for he has served much in those parts, and Fulk placed him as Seneschal for the very purpose." "For the purpose of admitting Clisson's men? Do I understand you right, Sir Knight, or do my ears play me false?" "Yes, I speak right.

Thus they parted Thibault, perfectly well satisfied to remain where he was, since he had little doubt that Oliver de Clisson's speedy arrival would set him at liberty, and turn the tables upon Gaston; and Gaston, glad that, since he could not at present have the satisfaction of hanging him, he was in a place where he could do no mischief, and whence he could not escape.

In ten minutes more Arthur, standing at the window, announced that the troop was riding off, with Clisson's pennon borne among them in triumph, and Sanchez and his accomplices, with their hands tied, and their feet fastened together beneath the bodies of their horses. Four or five weeks had passed away since Sir John Chandos had quitted the Chateau Norbelle.

Clisson's hitherto all-important presence with mechanical alacrity rather than personal desire to relinquish the honours of escort. Mr. Clisson was a keen, sharp-featured man of narrow outlook, the best of servants, the worst of masters.

Arthur found his pony standing still, and himself pressed hither and thither by the crowd, from which he knew not how to escape. Above these various sounds he heard an opening door there was a press forward, which carried him with it. The heavy doors, shivered here and there by Clisson's axe, had been thrown wide open; but the crowd closed in he saw no more.

Clisson's men only waited to secure their horses and prepare their ladders, and the attack was made on every side. It was well and manfully resisted. Bravely did the little garrison struggle with the numbers that poured against them on every side, and the day wore away in the desperate conflict. Sir Eustace heard the loud cries of "Montjoie St. Denis! Clisson!" on the one side, and the "St.

Ay, true, that I know, and 'twas he who was to admit Clisson's men." "Admit Clisson's men!" "Ay 'tis one of those Castles built by the old Paladin, Renaud de Montauban, that Eustace used to talk about. I ween he did not know of this trick that will be played on himself and all of them have, they say, certain secret passages leading through the vaults into the Castle.