"Sir," answered the other, "you are a very courteous man. Of what
country may you be?"

"An Englishman, sir, and of Norman blood." He also told his name.

"Gino Buondelmonte, at your service," replied the knight, naming
himself.

"Nay, sir," laughed Gilbert, "a knight cannot serve a simple squire!"

"It is never shame for gentle-born to serve gentle-born," answered the
other.

But now the smoke was driving the men of Pistoja out of the wood, and
the hillside down which Gilbert had ridden was covered with men in
mail, on horseback, and with footmen in leather and such poor armour as
had been worn by the dead sentinel. Buondelmonte thrust his feet home
in his wide stirrups, settled himself in the saddle, shortened his
reins, and drew his sword, while watching all the time the movements of
the enemy. Gilbert sat quietly watching them, too. As yet he had never
ridden at a foe, though he had fought on foot, and he unconsciously
smiled with pleasure at the prospect, trying to pick out the man likely
to fall by his sword. In England, or in France, he would certainly have
put on the good mail which was packed on the sumpter mule's back; but
here in the sweet Italian spring, in the morning breeze full of the
scent of wild flowers, and the humming of bees and the twittering of
little birds, even fighting had a look of harmless play, and he felt as
secure in his cloth tunic as if it had been of woven steel.

The position of the Florentines was the better, for they had the broad