A pace behind him the lilies of France were displayed, floating out languidly from a black and white banner staff held in the hands of a young squire.
The knight behind whom the banner royal of Scotland fluttered was a man of different mould.

His spare frame seemed buried in the suit of armour that he wore somewhat awkwardly.

His pale ascetic countenance looked more in place in a monkish cloister than on a knightly tilting ground, and he glanced this way and that with the swift and furtive suspicion of one who, while setting one trap, fears to be taken in another.
But the lady who rode on a white palfrey between these two took all men's regard, even in the presence of a marshal of France and a herald extraordinary of the King of Scots.
The Earl Douglas, having let his eyes once rest upon her, could not again remove them, being, as it were, fixed by the very greatness of the wonder which he saw.
It was the lady of the pavilion underneath the pines, the lady of the evening light and of the midnight storm.
She was no longer clothed in simple white, but arrayed like a king's daughter.

On her head was a high-peaked coiffure, from which there flowed down a graceful cloud of finest lace.

This, even as the Earl looked at her, she caught at with a bewitching gesture, and brought down over her shoulder with her gloved hand.