A figure entered, a stranger.

It was a tall stripling, half armed like one who is not for battle but expects a brush at any corner of the road.

A long surcoat of dark green and crimson fell stiffy as if it covered metal, and the boots were spurred and defended in front with thin plates of steel.

The light helm was open and showed a young face.

The stranger moved wearily as if from a long journey.
"Good even to you, sister," said the voice, a musical voice with the broad accent of Lorraine.