His long white beard and
searching eyes imparted to him an air of masterful dignity, which
was increased by his tabardlike vesture and the heraldic barret
cap with triple plume which bespoke his office.
"It is Sir William de Pakington, the prince's own herald and
scrivener," whispered Sir Nigel, as they pulled up amid the line
of knights who waited admission. "Ill fares it with the man who
would venture to deceive him. He hath by rote the name of every
knight of France or of England; and all the tree of his family,
with his kinships, coat-armor, marriages, augmentations,
abatements, and I know not what beside. We may leave our horses
here with the varlets, and push forward with our squires."
Following Sir Nigel's counsel, they pressed on upon foot until
they were close to the prince's secretary, who was in high debate
with a young and foppish knight, who was bent upon making his way
past him.
"Mackworth!" said the king-at-arms. "It is in my mind, young
sir, that you have not been presented before."
"Nay, it is but a day since I set foot in Bordeaux, but I feared
lest the prince should think it strange that I had not waited
upon him.
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