It was indeed De Bracy⁠—“bloody with spurring, fiery red with speed.” His armour bore all the marks of the late obstinate fray, being broken, defaced, and stained with blood in many places, and covered with clay and dust from the crest to the spur. Undoing his helmet, he placed it on the table, and stood a moment as if to collect himself before he told his news.

“De Bracy,” said Prince John, “what means this?⁠—Speak, I charge thee!⁠—Are the Saxons in rebellion?”

“Speak, De Bracy,” said Fitzurse, almost in the same moment with his master, “thou wert wont to be a man⁠—Where is the Templar?⁠—where Front-de-Boeuf?”

“The Templar is fled,” said De Bracy; “Front-de-Boeuf you will never see more. He has found a red grave among the blazing rafters of his own castle and I alone am escaped to tell you.”

“Cold news,” said Waldemar, “to us, though you speak of fire and conflagration.”