The town gate was opened full early, the booths about it did a great trade; at a quarter before seven Sir Gilles de Gurdun rode in, with his father on his right hand, the prior of Rouen on his left, and half a dozen of his kindred, fair and solid men all.

They were lightly armed, clothed in soft leather, without shields or any heavy war-furniture: old Gurdun a squarely built, red-faced man like his son, but with a bush of white hair all about his face, and eyebrows like curved snowdrifts; the prior (old Gurdun's brother's son) with a big nose, long and pendulous; Gilles' brother Bartholomew, and others whom it would be tedious to mention.

Gilles himself looked well knit for the business in hand; all the old women agreed that he would make a masterful husband.

They stabled their horses in the inn-yard, and went into the church porch to await the bride's party.
A trumpet at the gate announced her coming.

She rode on a little ambling horse beside her brother Saint-Pol.