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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 53754
   :PG.Title: The Captain of the Wight
   :PG.Released: 2016-12-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Frank Cowper
   :MARCREL.ill: Frank Cowper
   :DC.Title: The Captain of the Wight
              A Romance of Carisbrooke Castle in 1488
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1889
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE CAPTAIN OF THE WIGHT
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      "WHAT ART THOU?" STAMMERED THE PAGE.

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      The
      Captain of the Wight

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      A Romance
      of Carisbrooke Castle
      in 1488

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      BY

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      FRANK COWPER, M.A.

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      AUTHOR OF "CÆDWALLA; OR, THE SAXONS IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT"

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      *With Illustrations by the Author*

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      LONDON
      SEELEY & CO., ESSEX STREET, STRAND
      1889

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   PREFACE.

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To my mind there is no more picturesque
period in the history of Western Europe
than that of the Renaissance.

Among the many aspects in which it is
possible to regard this important epoch, that of
its influence on chivalry is one of the most
interesting.  The rough simplicity of the proud
mediæval knight, gradually yielding to the
subtle spell of pure poesy and courtly love,
while the barred helm and steel gauntlet were
hardly doffed from the stern field, or gorgeous
tourney, this is a subject which will always
fascinate.

However practical the world may grow, and
perhaps, because of its very practicality, there
will always be minds which will turn with
relief to the romantic and the ideal.  In the
turmoil of real life, with its sordid materialism,
there are many men and women who dwell
with delight on some noble life clothed round
with the glamour of ancient time, and presenting
itself to the mind in the garb of gorgeous
pomp and splendid pageantry, who, while trying
to achieve some great emprise themselves,
will dream of the men of old time, who have
soared aloft on the pinions of glorious fame.

With the privilege of a writer of fiction, I
have chosen Sir Edward Woodville,[*]
commonly called Lord Woodville, as the "eidolon"
on which to clothe the heroic virtue of chivalry,
without its many and grosser faults.  So little
is known of the Captain of the Wight, but
what little there is, shows him in so noble a
light, that I feel I am not necessarily
exaggerating, may even be accurately describing,
his knightly character.  His attachment to his
own unfortunate family, and his murdered
nephews, caused him to be included among
the list of nobles and knights, who were held
up to public execration in that long and artful
manifesto put forth by Richard III., before
he set out for the campaign which ended in
Bosworth field.

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[*] I have adopted the spelling of the name Woodville,
authorised by Lord Bacon.  The varieties--Wydevil,
Wydeville, Wyddevil, etc, etc.--are as numerous as those of
Leicester, who wrote his own name eight different ways;
while Villiers varied his fourteen times.  But Mainwaring
has outdone them all.  It is said there are one hundred
and thirty-one varieties!

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Returning in the victorious train of Henry
Tudor, now Henry VII. of England, Sir
Edward Woodville was invested with the
honourable post which had been lately held by
his unfortunate brother, the accomplished Lord
Scales.  As "Lord and Captain of the Isle of
Wight," he seems to have made himself so
popular that, by his own influence alone, he
was able to induce four hundred of the
inhabitants to follow him to Brittany.  "Noble and
courageous," "hardie and valyant," "a valiant
gentleman, and desirous of honour," are the
epithets with which the old chroniclers speak
of Sir Edward Woodville.  That he was never
married, and died upon the field of battle
"valiantly fighting," are all the facts that are
known about him.  But these facts are enough
to allow me to interpret his life as I have done.

Like another more exalted, but less fortunate,
inhabitant of Carisbrooke Castle, in the last
sad act of his life,

   |  "He nothing common did or mean
   |  Upon that memorable scene,"

but with his "crew of talle and hardie" men
of the Wight, died fighting with his sword in
hand, and his face to the foe, as became a
valiant captain of that lovely isle.

I have consulted all the authorities I could
find, in order to give as accurate a picture of
the time as possible.  I don't know that it is
needful to mention all, but the "Tournois du
Roi René d'Anjou," "The Memoirs of St
Palaye," "The Boke of St Albans," Sir
Thomas Malory's "Mort d'Arthur," and "La
joyeuse hystoire du bon Chevalier, le gentil
Seigneur de Bayart," have been my chief
sources for knightly feats and the accessories
of chivalry; while the chroniclers Halle,
Grafton, Fabyan, Stowe, Philip de Commines,
Bouchet, and the Paston Letters, have been
my chief historical guides.  Lord Bacon has
surveyed the whole period from a loftier
standpoint, and in his "Reigne of Henry VIIth,"
has presented us with a stately specimen of
the art of writing history; although, as an
old manuscript note in my edition briefly puts
it, "it is somewhat more of a picture of a
polished prince than a history exactly true,
more vouchers and fewer speeches would have
given it more strength, though less beauty."

It must be a subject of interest to the
inhabitants of the Isle of Wight to know that,
in writing of that fatal expedition to Brittany,
every one of the old historians speak of the
bravery of the predecessors, and, in many
cases, the ancestors, of the present dwellers in
the island.

It is to be deplored that there is no original
account of the expedition of the four hundred,
such as exists in the "Herald's" account of the
expedition to Dixmude, preserved in John
Leland's Collectanea, which happened in the
same year (1488).  I have tried laboriously
to find out the names of the chief inhabitants
of the Isle of Wight at that time; but owing
to the great danger and discomfort there was
in living in the island during the 15th century,
arising from the constantly threatened
invasions of the French, and their many actual
occupations of the island, the chief families
appear either to have become extinct in that
period, or to have retired to the mainland.

It is also worthy of note, to see how many
times the chief manors passed into new families
through the female line.  This fact is very
significant of the troubled state of the times.
It was not that the manhood of the island
ceased for want of sons, but that these sons
met a violent death in the many wars of
that age.

In conclusion, I may add that, while the
story is mainly written for the young, with
which object in view I have paid less
attention to the delineation of character than
the animation of incident, and the variety of
the scene, I trust their elders may also find
information about a romantic episode in our
local and national history.

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   CONTENTS.

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CHAP.

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I. `HOW THE GERFALCON SPED`_
II. `HOW THE FLEDGLING LEFT THE NEST`_
III. `OF THE FLEDGLING REJOICING IN HIS FREEDOM`_
IV. `HOW THE FLEDGLING GREW TO A COCKEREL`_
V. `OF THE COMING TO THE ISLE OF WIGHT`_
VI. `HOW THEY CAME TO CARISBROOKE CASTLE`_
VII. `HOW THE COCKEREL SHOWED FIGHT`_
VIII. `HOW THE COCKEREL GOT A FALL`_
IX. `HOW THE COCKEREL LEARNT HARDIHOOD`_
X. `HOW THE COCKEREL VAUNTED HIMSELF`_
XI. `HOW JOYOUSLY LIFE GOETH`_
XII. `HOW THE COCKEREL FELT HE WAS BUT A COCKEREL`_
XIII. `OF THE SHARPENING OF THE COCKEREL'S SPURS`_
XIV. `HOW THE COCKEREL USED HIS SPURS`_
XV. `HOW THE COCKEREL CROWED`_
XVI. `HOW THE COCKEREL WAS PETTED`_
XVII. `HOW THEY WERE AT FAULT`_
XVIII. `HOW THE RUSTY KNIGHT LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON HIS WRATH`_
XIX. `OF THE PERPLEXITY OF THE LITTLE MAID`_
XX. `HOW THE CAPTAIN KEPT TRYST`_
XXI. `OF THE COMBAT *À OUTRANCE*`_
XXII. `OF THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER`_
XXIII. `HOW THEY LEFT THE WIGHT`_
XXIV. `OF LA "BEALE FRANCE"`_
XXV. `OF ST AUBIN DU CORMIER`_
XXVI. `HOW "THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST WERE A' WEDE AWAY"`_
XXVII. `"OF THE CRAWLING TIDE"`_
XXVIII. `HOW THE MIST ROSE IN TERQUETÉ BAY`_
XXIX. `HOW THERE'S NO CLOUD WITHOUT ITS SILVER LINING`_

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

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`"WHAT ART THOU?" STAMMERED THE PAGE`_  *Front.*

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`RALPH WAVED HIS CAP IN TRIUMPH`_

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`THE CAPTAIN OF THE WIGHT ENTERING CARISBROOKE CASTLE`_

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`THE NUN OFFERED THE WINE TO YOLANDE`_

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`HOW THEY TILTED AT CARISBROOKE`_

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`A SHARP SPASM WAS THE SUDDEN ANSWER`_

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`HE DROVE HIS DAGGER INTO THE CAITIFF ABOVE HIM`_

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`HOW THEY LEFT ST HELENS`_

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`HOW THE MEN OF THE WIGHT WITHSTOOD THE FRENCH`_

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`THE LAST CHARGE AT ST AUBIN`_

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`"WE MUST ROW," SAID SIR GEORGE`_

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IN THE GLOAMING (missing from source book)





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.. _`HOW THE GERFALCON SPED`:

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   THE CAPTAIN OF THE WIGHT

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   CHAPTER I.

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   HOW THE GERFALCON SPED.

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In front of an old ivy-covered manor house, so
built, with its projecting wings, as to form three
sides of a quadrangle, a boy was standing, idly
leaning his arms on the stone coping of the low wall
which shut in the fourth side of the courtyard.

The boy was well grown, with fair, ruddy face,
and brown hair, cut, after the picturesque fashion
of the latter half of the fifteenth century, straight
above his eyebrows, but falling in wavy masses on
each side of his face.  His eyes were bright, and
full of life.  His strongly-knit frame gave promise
of strength and activity, and his age might well
have been put at seventeen or eighteen even, so tall
was he, and well grown, although, in truth, he was
not more than fifteen.

The free life in the fresh Hampshire air, blowing
from the sea, over forest, gorse-covered common,
and well-tilled fields, had given play to his thews
and sinews.

It was evening.  The sun was just setting over
the blue hills covered with woods, interspersed with
heathy patches.  Far as the eye could see, there
were gently-swelling undulations, with a loftier hill
looming out of the grey mist which rose, film-like,
behind the nearer masses of the russet forest.  Here
and there some larger expanse of mist looked like
a lake amid the overhanging trees, while over all
brooded the silence of the evening, when all nature
pauses in reverence to the setting sun, broken only
by the lowing of some distant kine, or the faint
hum of a beetle as it went booming by.

Suddenly the boy stood up, listened attentively,
then, springing through the gateway, he darted down
the road in front of the house, to meet a horseman
who was riding up the forest glade.

The man was singing blithely as he rode, and
the refrain of each verse rang merrily in the stillness
of the evening.  It was the sound of this which had
told the boy of the new comer's approach.

   |  "Ringwood, my hound, with a merry taste,
   |  All about the green wood began caste,
   |  I took my horn and blew him a blast
   |  With tro-ro-ro-ro! tro-ro-ro-ro!
   |  With hey go bet! hey go bet! ho!
   |  There he goeth, there he goeth, there he goe,
   |  We shall have sport and game enowe,"

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rang out clear over the wood, and cheerily the boy
answered,--

"In sooth, Humphrey, thou'rt in fine voice to-night;
but, prythee, cease thy song for a while, and give
me the gerfalcon, that I may see her."

"Certes, Master Ralph, thou wilt be well pleased
anon.  'Tis the veriest sweetest little bird for mounting
a heron, or springing a pheasant, as ever I did see.
There, stroke her cautiously; see how she manteleth
and warbelleth her wings."

So saying, the serving man, or varlet, as the
falconer's assistants were called, stooped down and held
out his right hand, which was protected by a stout
leathern glove with a large gauntlet.  Two leather
thongs, called lunes, were connected by two rings or
tyrrits, and the lunes were then fastened to the jesses,
and the ends loosely twined round the little finger,
to prevent the bird from escaping.

The bird was gaily hooded, and turned its head
from side to side, causing the little artificial plume
of feathers on its head to shake and flutter gaily.

The boy, in his eagerness to stroke his new
possession--for it was his birthday, and his father had sent
to Salisbury to buy this hawk for his favourite
son--put out his hand too quickly, for the hawk made a
peck at it; but he drew it back in time, and with
more caution and gentle words he at last succeeded
in stroking her wings and back.

"Marry Humphrey, she is a fine one.  She is a
long hawk, and ought to fly well."

"I' faith! will she so.  I got her rare cheap; for
the price has risen mightily sithen the tolls have
been laid on all hawks.  'Tis one shilling and
eightpence, over and above the price of the bird, I had
to pay to Brother Anselm for the licence of bringing
her over; but I got her cheap, marry, did I!  An
you'll find such another in all the south of England--ay,
and the north too--for ten shillings, never call
me Humphrey more."

They had now reached the gateway where Master
Ralph, as Humphrey called him, had been waiting
for his birthday present.  The groom took off the
leather glove and gave it to Ralph, who put it on,
and took the bird into the house to show to his father
and mother, while Humphrey rode round to the stables.

The interior of the hall was a large low oak-panelled
room, with a wide fireplace on one side.
Antlers, spears, bows, and bills were hung or fixed
all along the walls, and a few skins of red deer and
other wild animals lay about on the stone floor.
Ralph crossed the hall, and went down a low dark
passage.  He paused at a little oak door, and tapped.

"Come in," said a lady's voice, and Ralph entered
joyously.

"Oh, mother, look!  She's a hawk fit for the
emperor.  Thank thee, father, thank thee; 'tis the best
gift thou couldst have chosen!"  And the boy went
up to the large armchair, in which an old man was
sitting, clad in a long robe of fur, while opposite to him
was standing his wife, the Dame Isabel de Lisle.

"Ay, my son, so thou art right joyous, art thou?
Well, and that's e'en as it should be.  Thou art growing
a stout lad, and 'tis time to be thinking of thy after
life.  I would fain have ye all started in the world,
before God sees fit to call me to him; and methinks
'twill not be long now."

"Why, father, what ails thee, that thou talkest thus
dolefully?" said Ralph, his ardour damped by the
tone of his father's remarks.

"Nay, child," said his mother, stroking the glossy,
waving hair of her son, who had doffed his cap the
moment he entered his parents' presence, "nay,
child, 'tis naught but the old wound thy father hath
gotten at Barnet grieveth him to-night."

"May-be, may-be, fair wife," said the old knight,
who always called his lady "fair," although she was
certainly considerably past the age when any claims
to fairness might reasonably be supposed to have been
surrendered; but in his eyes she was always fair.
"Perchance 'tis naught; but my mind misgiveth me,
and I would fain talk gravely to my sons to-night.
If God wills that I should live, well and good--if
not, well and good too; leastways, I shall have settled
matters aright before I go hence."

"But, father, thou hast not looked at my falcon
that thou gavest me.  See what a long hawk it is;
and what a gay lune Brother Anselm hath put
on it."

"Ay, marry, fair son, 'tis a fine bird, and will
spring a partridge rarely, I'll venture.  Thou must
fly her to-morrow--there's many a gagylling of geese,
or sord of mallards, down Chute Forest way."

"Certes, father, I'll e'en try her at a heron first."

At this moment another step was heard outside,
and two other boys came in; one a good deal older,
and the other a year younger than Ralph.

"Well, Ralph, what hast got there?" said the
elder, coming up and looking at the bird.  "Marry
she's a fine hawk, but I'd rather have had a falcon
gentil."

"Ay, ay, and pay twenty shillings for it, let
alone the toll of forty shillings in bringing of her
into the kingdom."

"Nay, thou mightest have gotten one cheap from
old Simon Bridle.  He knows where all the best birds
are to be got--all through the country side--"

"Nay, Jasper, why dost try to put the lad out of
countenance with his pretty bird?  Thou knowest
she is a good bird, and thou wouldst be glad enough
to have her thyself," said his mother.

"Now leave we this talk of the gerfalcon, and
sithen you are all here, and 'tis yet half an hour to
supper, let me hear what you, my sons, would wish to
do after I am dead and gone.  Jasper, you are the
eldest, to you will fall my Bailiwick of Chute Forest,
my manors of Chute, Holt, and Thruxton, and many
other fair lands.  Now wouldst thou go to the court,
and seek to increase thy estate, as did thy great-grandfather
Sir John Lisle of blessed memory, or wouldst
thou stay at home, and take place and rank in thine
own county?"

The eldest son took little time to answer, but
replied respectfully,--

"I would fain stay at home and care for you and
my lady mother, and mind the fair lands God and
my ancestors have left me."

"Then, my son, as God wills it, and you have chosen,
so be it, and may God's blessing and thy parents' be
upon thee.  Now, Ralph, my son, what willest thou?"

The young boy hesitated.  He looked at his
mother, and then down, and finally, raising his eyes
with a keen light of joyous but rather shy determination
said,--

"Noble sire, I would fain go to learn arms, and
be trained in some noble prince's household, for I
am of an age now when I could do some deed which
might earn me knighthood."

"Well, fair son, thou hast answered as I would
have thee.  'Tis sad to thy lady mother and me to
part with thee, even for a space, but it is thy life that
must be spent, not ours, and we have ever thought on
thy weal.  I will take thought what can be determined
to try purveyance and maintenance as befitteth
a son of the De Lisles.  And now, son Walter,
what willest thou?"

Walter was a delicate, slight boy, with a studious
face, and one who had always been looked upon as
the scholar of the family.  He knew well what his
parents wished, and also what was the custom of
those of gentle blood who were the youngest sons.
They must either seek their fortune in war, or else
in the Church.  He had not physical strength, nor
sufficiently combative instincts, for the profession of
arms, although, boylike, he had often been led away,
when reading the romances of the time, to wish
to imitate the deeds of Roland, or Tristram, or
Launcelot; but then he was very fond of their worthy
chaplain, who was also the boys' tutor, and he
had been strongly imbued with a desire to sacrifice
himself to God, as it was called.  He therefore
answered,--

"Father, I would like much to be a clerk, and
follow in the steps of Our Lord and Master.
Perchance I may do some good work some day."

"Ay, in sooth wilt thou, my dear son; and thou
hast made the choice most after thy mother's heart,
albeit, weak man that I am, had I been a youth,
I would have thought scorn of a clerkly life, yet,
now I am old, I know well what awaiteth those
who have devoted themselves to God and Mother
Church from their youth upward.  I will avise me
what hath best be done for thee also, and will
send a missive to my right reverend kinsman the
Abbot of Quarr, and perchance he will do his best
to help us.  And now, my sons, since all is in fair
trim for your future welfare, and thy noble and fair
mother is right pleased, I know, as truly am I--and I
give God thanks that He hath given me such right
trusty and well-nurtured sons--let us all go to supper,
for we have even to drink the health of our Ralph,
who by God's will from henceforth will soon become
a right honest varlet and trusty page, and in time
will proceed to be a very worshipful knight, like his
ancestors have been--worthy men, and leal to their
liege lord."

So saying, the old knight rose up with difficulty,
assisted by his sons, who ran to aid him, for he had
received a severe wound from a bill, over his left
thigh, and had never recovered the use of it since.

"Grammercy, fair sons! but, Ralph, do thou lead
in thy lady mother, for to thee belongs the honour of
the day."

And so the little party went down the passage and
entered the hall, where supper was laid at the upper
end.  The servants were all assembled in the body
of the hall, and the sons carved for their parents at
the high table.  Ralph's health was duly drunk amid
much festivity, and the whole household retired to
rest at a reasonable hour.

The next day a messenger was despatched to
Salisbury, where the Abbot of Quarr, who was related
to Sir John Lisle, or De Lysle, was staying, to ask him
to come over to Thruxton Hall, and advise his
kinsman on the future of his sons.  The worthy Abbot
came without delay; and that evening a family
consultation was held in the old parlour, round the
knight's armchair.

The old knight briefly explained the matter, and
then left the worthy Abbot to comment on it.

"By the Holy Rood! but thy gentle sons have all
well bethought them, and I could not have directed
them better myself.  Truly, 'tis the overruling spirit
of God who has guided them to a right judgment!"
said the Abbot.  "Now for Jasper there will need
to be no thought taken.  Out of the abundance of
thy lands he will be provided for, and may marry
and raise up a fair lineage; but for our nephew
Ralph other thoughts will be requisite.  He will need
fair clothes, as becometh one of a noble house, and
an honest varlet to go with him, and a mettlesome
courser; one not too fiery, that will lead him astray,
and perchance disgrace him, or his clothes, but one
that is stout withal, and not of a too tame spirit.
And now methinks I know of just such a one,
which the Prior of Christchurch, who is at Sarum
now on business, wisheth to part with, having
become too feeble or too stout for so mettlesome
a nag.  Nephew Ralph, I will e'en give him thee,
with my blessing."

"My Lord Abbot, I give thee humble thanks,"
stammered Ralph delighted.

"And now we must bethink us to what noble
lord we may apprentice him.  Thou knowest what
state my Lord Scales, lately deceased, kept in his
Castle of Carisbrooke.  He, poor man--and may the
Lord have mercy on his soul--was grievously done
to death near Stoney Stratford, by the late King
Richard, whom the devil led far astray.  Nevertheless,
he was a man of war, and well skilled in subtle
council.  However, King Henry hath made his
brother Captain-General of our land; and Sir Edward
Woodville, whom most men call the Lord Woodville,
and who some even think will be called to
the council by the style of Lord Rivers, is but now
on his way back from the hard fight at Stoke by
Newark, where he hath gained himself fresh glory.
Certes he is a gallant, very puissant, and right hardy
lord, and one under whom much knighthood and
gentleness might be learnt, and as he is the uncle of
our sovereign lord the King's most noble wife, there
is much hope Ralph might be advanced in the King's
household.  Now I can present our fair nephew to
him, and he can be brought up under my eye in the
right pleasant Castle of Carisbrooke, of the honour
of which the Lisles hold the Manor of Mansbridge.
How say you, kinsman mine, will this serve you?"

"Ay, marry will it, my Lord Abbot, and I see fair
promise of the boy's doing well, and faring right
puissantly.  And now I bethink me, our kinsman of
Briddlesford may take an interest in the lad.  His
own son, I hear, hath been disinherited by him for
his wilfulness and strong fealty to the house of York.
I would fain see them reconciled, but an that may
not be, I see no wrong in Ralph marrying his only
daughter.  But now, canst thou do somewhat also
for son Walter here?--he would like well to be a clerk."

"By Our Lady, but he is a good lad, and we will
take order that he be well advanced, as far as our
poor influence in the Holy Church goeth; but he
should be entered at Oxen ford shortly, for he is of
age to go thither.  I will write to my well-beloved
brother and kinsman, the Abbot of Abyngdon, who
will get him entered at Queen's College, over which,
when I was a scholar, the very puissant prince
Cardinal Beaufort was provost."

Thus the future of the boy was well arranged, and
it was agreed that the Abbot of Quarr should take
Ralph with him, as soon as his outfit was ready; and
in order to expedite matters, a serving-man was sent
to Salisbury to fetch out a tailor with the necessary
cloth and stuff suitable to apparel a young man of
good birth who was going to be page to so potent a
lord as the Lord Woodville.  At the same time, the
varlet received orders to negotiate with the Prior of
Christchurch for the horse.

Meanwhile Ralph and his brother had tried the
qualities of his new hawk.

"Thou well knowest, brother Ralph," said Jasper to
him, as they rode along on their small ponies towards
Chute Forest, "my peregrine will fly faster than
thy gerfalcon."

"Marry, will it? that we shall see, I trow.  See
there's a bird yonder; 'tis a heron, now fly our birds
at her."

No sooner said than done; off went the jesses, away
went the hoods, and with a swing of the arm and
wrist, the noble birds were cast off the fist.  Up they
sprang high in air.  The gerfalcon mounted quicker,
but the peregrine went straighter.  Away they sped
and the boys after them, halloing to the dogs to keep
to heel.

"See, Ralph, I told thee so, thy bird can't hold
a candle to mine.  Well flown, Swiftwing, well
mounted!  Now she sees the quarry!"

"Ay, and the quarry sees her.  Look, Jasp, she
has turned, and, by St Edmund, she'll cross my
beauty!  Listen to the sweet tinkle of her bells.
How swift she mounteth.  Ah! my little lady, thou
knowest thy work well."

"I'll bet you my new riding-whip against your
new set of bells, that my hawk strikes her first."

"Done!" cried Ralph eagerly.

The attention of the two boys was keenly fixed on
the two birds, and they rode on, heeding nothing,
the varlet who attended his young lords keeping well
up with them.

"Hi!  Master Jasper, look where thou goest,"
cried out the servant; "thou will ride down yon
old man!"

Jasper was not best pleased at being interrupted
in his view of the sport, and, glancing down, saw
a man with a hood drawn over his head, and
an old tattered gown on, who was with difficulty
walking across the heath, attended by a young
girl, meanly attired, but very modest and sweet-looking.

"Why, old man, wherefore crossedst thou my
path?  Didst not see the game toward?  Fie, I
should have thought an old man like you wouldst
have known better!"

"Nay, fair gentleman, I did cross thy path
purposely.  I have lost my way, and am parlous
footsore; so is this poor lass, my daughter; and I crave
you of your kindness tell me where we may get
shelter."

"Ay, that will my father right willingly give you.
Go you on, keep the path over the common, and we
shall follow you anon.  Thou canst not miss thy
way.  Say young Master Jasper of Thruxton sent
thee.  Thou wilt meet with care enough there."

"Grammercy, fair young master; but I will not
keep thee from thy sport to waste thy time hearing
a poor man's thanks."

So saying, the man and the young girl continued
their way.

Ralph had been looking on; he saw how weary the
man was, and his generous young heart beat with
pity.  He rode after the strangers, and, dismounting,
insisted on the poor man getting up and taking his
daughter on the croup behind him.  There was
something in the manner of the wanderers which seemed
to tell him they were not common people.  The
man was evidently much touched.  He thanked the
boy with quiet dignity, and accepted his offer with
ready pleasure; while the large hazel eyes of the girl
filled with grateful emotion.  She gave him a shy
glance, full of gratitude.

At this moment a loud shout of disappointment
came from Jasper.

"By St Edmund, thy falcon hath risen above the
heron, and will strike in another second!"

This was too much for Ralph.  With a joyous
bound he left the new-comers on his pony, and ran
after his brother, just in time to see his gerfalcon
give a swoop, and the next minute descend like a
falling bolt right on to the doomed heron, who, however,
with prompt instinct, turned up its long neck, and
held its beak like a sword on which the falcon should
impale itself.

"Gare beak, my beauty; strike him sideways.
There, by all the saints, she has done it!  There they
come.  Ah! Melampus; ah! Ringwood; heel, sir, heel!"

And the boy ran as hard as he could to the spot
where the heron, still struggling, but feebly, was
falling with the hawk's claws and talons fixed
firmly in its back, and its strong beak pecking into
its brain.

"Well done! well sped, brave bird!" cried Ralph
joyously.

"Ay, but I have lost my riding-whip," said Jasper
ruefully.

"Nay, Jasp, I will never take it; 'twas but in
sport."

And thus the first flight of Ralph's gerfalcon
ended.  They recalled the goshawk, and with hawks
hooded, jesses on legs, and fast on fists, they returned
home, carrying the heron with them.





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.. _`HOW THE FLEDGLING LEFT THE NEST`:

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   CHAPTER II.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE FLEDGLING LEFT THE NEST.

.. vspace:: 2

When the boys drew near home, talking
volubly all the time, as boys do, and wondering
whether the poor man and his daughter had
reached the manor before them, they met Humphrey,
who was returning from Salisbury with the tailor and
the new horse.

Ralph descried them some way off, and darted
away like a hare, before Jasper and the groom had
guessed the cause of his flight.  Breathless the boy
ran up to Humphrey, and could scarcely pour out the
torrent of questions, mingled with ejaculations of
pleasure and admiration, with which he overwhelmed
the varlet, so scant of breath was he.

The horse was certainly a beauty, and did great
credit to the taste and judgment of the worthy Abbot
of Quarr.

"Ay, certes 'tis a fine beast; but the main fault, to
my mind, is that he's too much for thee, Master
Ralph.  'Tis a mettlesome hackney, and I don't
marvel that fat Prior of Christchurch wanted to part
with him.  He'll find a difference between thy light
weight and that old round shaveling yonder."

"Tush!  Humphrey, let me get on him, that's all--an
I bring him not to reason, beshrew me for a
dullard and walk-a-foot."

By this time Jasper and the other groom had come
up, and they were loud in their praises of the new
horse.

"My faith!  Ralph, thou'rt in luck to-day," said
Jasper, somewhat discontentedly.  "Thy falcon hath
beat mine, and now thou ownest a horse the best,
well-nigh, to look at in our stables.  Thou'rt a lucky
wight, that thou art."

They were approaching the manor house, and as
they came within sight of the old buildings, they saw
the Abbot of Quarr coming out of the hall door with
Lady Lisle.

"Humphrey, let me mount him," said Ralph
eagerly, "before they see us.  I'd wager a mark my
lady mother would be astonished, and so would my
right reverend Lord Abbot."

"Nay, Master Ralph, better let one of the stable
knaves try him first; he's a bit fresh and mettlesome.
Maybe thou wouldst not master him."

"Marry, Humphrey, thou'rt parlous cautelous.
Nay, but I will mount him; he's mine.  An thou
dost not hold him, I will e'en vault on him as he
is, and take my chance."

Humphrey, seeing how wilful his young master
was, and fearing lest the horse should kick him if he
tried to mount as he threatened, drew up and held
the horse.  The boy, with a little run, vaulted on to
the back of his steed, which stood quite still, only
turning his head round, and looking at his new
master with wise, mild eye.  When the boy was
firmly seated, and had taken the reins in his hand,
for the horse was bitted and bridled, although
there was only a cloth over its back, he clapped
his heels to the animal's side, and urged him to
a trot.

The others all watched him, and wondered to
see the boy, who had hitherto only ridden his
pony, sit so well and masterfully on the fine
animal's back.  His seat was firm, and the grip of his
knees strong.

The horse, unaccustomed to so light a weight,
sprang forward with a plunge, for it was fresh, and
had been worked but little lately.  With eager
excitement the boy urged it on to a canter, and
clapped both heels to its sides.  Nothing loth, the
splendid animal threw up its head, gave a snort of
answering joy, and broke into a long easy stride.

In another minute they had reached the approaching
figures, and Ralph waved his cap with joyous
triumph.

.. _`RALPH WAVED HIS CAP IN TRIUMPH`:

.. figure:: images/img-018.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "RALPH WAVED HIS CAP IN TRIUMPH."

   "RALPH WAVED HIS CAP IN TRIUMPH."

"Why, 'tis Ralph!" cried his mother, in amazement.
"My son, have a care; 'tis a parlous great horse for so
young a boy."

"Nay, fair lady," said the Abbot; "see how well he
manageth him: there is naught to fear.  He is a likely
lad enough, and will make a fine brave present for
me to give to my Lord Woodville.  There is promise
of a noble knight in that stripling.  In sooth, he
cometh of fair lineage."

Meanwhile the boy was galloping round the greensward
in front of the house, talking to the horse all
the while, patting his neck and mane, perfectly at
home on the back of the animal, and radiant with joy.

As he came round again he drew up in front of
his mother and the Abbot, and, reining in the horse,
made a low reverence to them with his cap.

"Grammercy, my Lord Abbot, for thy right noble
present; 'tis the most brave horse in all England, and
I am right thankful to thee for thy gracious kindness,"
said the boy.

"Well, young master, thou managest him well
enough, and I am glad to see that thou hast profited
by the lessons of thy lady mother, and hast learned
courtesy and easy manners.  An thou goest on thus,
thou wilt bring credit on thy family, and my Lord
Woodville will value thee and us right worthily.
Take the horse with my benediction, and may the
Lord be with thee, even as He was with David.  May
He make thine arm strong, and thy spear sharp
against all that is vile, mean, and base in this world.
Mayest thou win knighthood, and not filthy lucre, by
thy prowess; though indeed, as Paul saith, 'The
workman is worthy of his hire,' and they do err
grievously who think that the ministrations of Holy
Church should be rewarded only by thanks, and
naught else."

During this speech, the tailor and Humphrey, with
Master Jasper and his varlet, had come up, and the
inferiors all doffed their caps as they listened
respectfully to the Abbot.

"'Tis a learned man and a holy," said the tailor as
they went round to the servants' offices, "and he draws
a right subtle distinction in that same matter of the
acquisition of goods; for as a rolling stone gathereth
no moss, so a knight that acteth full knightly hath no
means to acquire wealth for himself, whereas an Abbot,
or churchman, who liveth well in one place, layeth up
much goods for himself and Mother Church.  Piety
without wealth is as an addled egg that showeth a fair
outside but is all fruitless and deceitful within.  And
as 'tis the duty of the Church to spend and be spent
in the service of the saints, how can they spend if
they have naught to give away."

While the tailor moralised thus to Humphrey, they
entered the kitchen.  Ralph and Jasper were walking
by the side of their mother and the Abbot; they had
dismounted from their horses, and had given them to
the groom to take round to the stables.

After taking a few turns up and down in front of
the house, Lady Lisle said she must go in and see
the tailor, for no time was to be lost in cutting out
and making the necessary clothes for Ralph to take
with him.

It had been settled that all must be ready by
to-morrow early, as the Abbot had to travel to
Winchester to meet Sir Edward Woodville, who was
going to stay there one night, on his way to
Southampton to cross over to the Isle of Wight.  There
was, therefore, a great deal to be done, and Ralph
was taken in by his mother to be measured and fitted,
while she set her maids to work to sew the various
pieces together as the tailor cut them out.

There was one part of the preparation Ralph liked
very much; that was the selecting the weapons he
would need as a page, and which might serve him if
he should reach the rank of esquire before he
returned home again.  He was a tall boy and strong,
therefore his father bade the old major-domo, who
had acted as his esquire, select sound and strong arms,
such as a good sword, a well-tempered dagger, and
a stout bow with fitting arrows; while a target,
a back and breast piece, and a light steel cap, with
a strong under jerkin of leather, completed his
defensive attire.

It was decided that Humphrey should go with him,
and a sumpter horse was to take the baggage of
master and man.  The evening was passed in great
excitement on the part of Ralph, who could not keep
still for a minute, and caused Jasper to break out in
wrath several times, while his father and mother
watched him silently, the latter with eyes full of
affectionate sadness.  It was the first time the family
circle had been broken up.

Suddenly Jasper remembered the poor man and
his daughter, and, glad of an opportunity of directing
attention to some other matter, he said,--

"Marry, Ralph, we never asked what became of that
old beggar and thy nag; didst hear whether they
had left him in the stables?"

"Was it a poor man and a young girl?" said Lady Lisle.

"Ay, mother; didst thou see them?"

"Certes I did, and a quandary it put me into too.
For I saw it was thy pony, Ralph, and I marvelled
what had come to thee.  But the vagrant put me
at ease.  Poor old man, and poor little wench, they
were sorely bested; and when I heard their tale, I felt
proud of my son Ralph.  'Twas well done to
succour the weary and footsore."

"Humph!" said the Abbot.  "I know not, fair
lady, whether 'twere altogether a wise action.  The
beggar was a stranger, and 'tis a mad prank to lend
thy goods to people thou dost not know."

"Maybe, Lord Abbot; but I bethink me of One
who not only lent but gave to those whom He did
not know."

"Ay, marry, so do I, fair lady, but we who live
in the world must be careful not to be visionaries or
unlike other folk; and if Ralph goeth with me, he
must be mindful of the saying, 'Honour to whom
honour is due.'  Now a beggar and his slut of a
daughter are not fit people to give one's pony
too--unless, indeed, he is mindful of being a saint; if so,
he'd best not go to my Lord Woodville."

The evening was soon gone, and all things were in
fair way for an early start to-morrow.  The hospitable
Lady Lisle had given a night's lodging to the two
weary wayfarers, who had told her their journey lay
to the Isle of Wight, where the aunt of the young girl
lived; and Lady Lisle had said she would see what
could be done to further them on their way--perhaps
even the Abbot of Quarr would allow them to
go in his train.

Before retiring to rest, Sir John Lisle called
his son to him, and gave him solemn words of
advice, and as Ralph listened, boy as he was, he
felt proud of his father for speaking such noble
words.

"My son," the old knight said, sitting in his large
arm-chair, laying his hand on the boy's head, who
sat at his feet on a low stool, looking up into his
father's face, "my son, thou art going forth like a
fledgling from the nest.  Thou hast been gently
nurtured, and hast proved that the good lessons of
thy lady mother and Sir Thomas Merlin[\*] have sunk
into thy heart.  But the world into which thou goest
will offer many trials and sore temptations.  I cannot
guard thee beforehand against all; but there are
some few things I can tell thee, and thy mother
will tell thee some others.  Fear God before all
things!  Fight the King's enemies, and those of thy
country; and never turn thy back on the foe as long
as thy chief bids thee fight.  In all things be obedient,
and pay reverence to those in authority over thee.
Be liberal, courteous, and gentle.  Let thy charges
be as thy purse can pay.  Thy kinsman, the Abbot
of Quarr, will aid thee in all that is right for thy
place in life; for I have assigned him certain
lands and rents in trust for thee, and thou must
maintain the rank of thy family and name.  Brave I
know thou art, and truthful, I well believe; but of
the matters that appertain to thy gentle life, these
thy lady mother will tell thee.  I have been too
much a man of war in these troublous times, and, I
fear me, God loveth not those who have used the
sword too freely.  But 'tis in the blood, and we
are not able to fight against it.  And now, my
son, may God be with thee.  Fare thee well.  Win
thy spurs, and come home a very gentle, perfect
knight."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Priests were in that age called "Sir."

.. vspace:: 2

So saying, the old knight laid his hands on the boy's
wavy hair, and let them rest there a little space, while
his lips moved, as if in prayer.  When he removed his
hands, he raised the boy and kissed him on his
forehead, and bid him "Good-night."

Ralph was touched, and went up to his room, for the
first time that day sorry he was going; but soon the
glorious life before him caused him to forget tender
thoughts, and he got into bed longing for the night to be
over and his adventures to begin.  While he was lying
wide awake, unable to sleep through excitement, he
heard his mother's step outside the door, and in
another minute she came in.

"My little son--nay, not so little after all, but to me
always my little son--I have come to wish thee
good-night, and to say farewell; for to-morrow we must
all be busy, and I cannot then say what I would
say now.  Thy father hath told thee what appertains
to knighthood, I would fain tell thee of what
concerneth thy soul--albeit this also belongeth more to
Sir Thomas Merlin's office; but a mother's words are
always blessed, if God guideth her, as He surely doth.
Remember always to say thy prayers, night and
morning; and pray not only in thy words and
memory, but with the real fervour of a thinking
heart.  Repeat not simply set sentences, but think of
thy daily needs, and daily sins, and lay all before
God.  Be mindful to give thanks in thy prayers, for
gratitude is the sign of a gentle heart.  Remember,
also, always to be generous to the poor; if thou
gainest riches, give freely to those who need, for in
so doing, thou layest up treasure in heaven.  Help
the weak, the widow, and the fatherless, and in all
thy youthful strength and rejoicing, forget not the
sick, the miserable, and those in grievous dolour.
Avoid all bad words; be cleanly of speech, as well
as of life; and think ever on thy Blessed Lord, the
saints, and thy mother.  And, lastly, be courteous,
obedient, and humble.  Be gay and light-hearted, as
becometh youth, but never let wine overcome thee,
or the temptations of the tavern and the dice-box.
Avoid all boastfulness, but let thine arm and hand
ever maintain thy word, as is fit for one who
professeth arms, which is a calling honoured of Heaven,
in the person of those puissant captains of Rome, the
captain of the Italian company, and the captain that
confessed our Blessed Lord.  Now, good-night, fair
son, and may God bless thee.  I have brought thee
a little purse; it containeth some small pieces that
may procure thee favour with thy companions when
thou meetest with them.  Humphrey hath charge of
thy wardrobe and body-linen, and will see to thy
proper furnishing as one of gentle birth and fair
lineage.  God bless thee, my son, and bring thee
back to us, as thy noble father said, 'a very gentle,
perfect knight,' and, better still, bring thee, and all of
us, to that rest above, where there is no more
fighting--no more parting."

So saying, the sweet lady bent down and kissed
her son with fervent love, and left him to his
thoughts.

The next morning all were astir early--Ralph
among the earliest.  The worthy Abbot said Mass,
assisted by the excellent Chaplain, Sir Thomas
Merlin, and after breakfast the preparations for
departure were completed.

The little cavalcade came round to the front of the
old mansion, and a pretty scene it made.  There were
the sumpter horses of the Abbot and his two servants;
Humphrey, and the baggage horse of Master Ralph;
and Ralph's new present, the handsome charger,
newly harnessed with new saddle and gay housings.
Behind, mounted on Ralph's pony, was the young
girl, while her father stood by her side ready to
lead the pony, for Lady Lisle had bethought her
of them, and had persuaded the Abbot to let them
journey with him as far as Winchester, at least,
although that worthy prelate was much averse to
taking stray waifs in his train.

Ralph was already dressed in a new suit of clothes.
Three suits had already been made, and more were
to follow, if it was found that he was not dressed
suitably to his rank and companions.  And very
handsome he looked in his gay attire.  He wore a
velvet bonnet on one side of his head, his wavy hair
falling on each side of his free, merry face; a little
linen collar was round his neck, and a close-fitting
tunic of parti-coloured cloth, puffed at the shoulders
and elbows, and pleated down the front and back
below the chest and shoulder blades, was fastened
round his waist by a leathern belt, from which hung
a wallet and a poignard.  Tight-fitting hose clad his
well-formed legs, and were of different colours, according
to the fashion of the time, on each leg.  He held
his falcon on fist, and carried a little riding-whip in
his left hand.  A riding-cloak was strapped over the
pommel of his saddle, from which also hung some
saddle bags containing a few needful articles for the
journey and for immediate use.

All the household had come out to see the start.

The Abbot took leave of his kinsfolk, giving them
his benediction, and promising to care well for
their son.  He then mounted his horse with the
aid of his varlets, for he was a large and portly
ecclesiastic, and, when mounted, presented a very
majestic and dignified appearance in his white
Cistercian cassock, with its black scapular hood and
cloak, with a square, rather high black cap on his
head.

"Come, cousin Ralph, haste thee, the day grows
apace, and we should be at Winton before noon or
little after."

Ralph had gone up to his father, and knelt
down to receive his blessing, saying,--

"Farewell, my noble father, when I come again
may I find thee and my lady mother well and in
good state, and may I do naught that will bring
dolour on thy life."

"Amen, fair son.  Go and do valiantly--and the
God of thy fathers go with thee."

Rising up, Ralph embraced his father and mother,
took leave of his brothers and the servants, and
mounted his horse.  His heels were armed with
spurs, and, touching the animal's flank he caused
him to rear and paw the air.

"Marry, the lad sits the horse like a man of thirty.
He will do well, and gain himself a name."

The cavalcade now turned off down the glade and
disappeared round a bend of the ride, Ralph waving
his cap as a last adieu.

"Well, fair wife, so our fledgling hath flown, let us
get indoors and pray to God for His mercy."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OF THE FLEDGLING REJOICING IN HIS FREEDOM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   OF THE FLEDGLING REJOICING IN HIS FREEDOM.

.. vspace:: 2

When Ralph trotted after the little cavalcade,
which he had allowed to get ahead of him as
he waved his final adieu to his parents and his home,
he felt all the pride of boyhood budding into
independent manhood.

He had long chafed at his inactive life.  The rough
experience of the late civil wars had taught men to
live fast, and many a hardy knight had begun the
fierce struggle in the hand-strokes of war at the age of
twelve or thirteen.  The boyhood of King Edward
the Fourth had often been told him, how early he
had learned the accomplishments of the tilt-yard, and
how early he had practised them on the stern field of
war.  A king by the right of his own good sword at
the age of twenty, he had fought in many deadly
fights as leader and simple man-at-arms for several
years before.

Ralph had always been a good boy at his lessons,
for he was fond of the chaplain who taught him,
but the book he loved most of all was the recently
printed book of Sir Thomas Malory, who had compiled
and translated the Mort-d'Arthur.  He gloated
over the description of the single combats, the jousts,
and the tourneys in that poetic story, and never tired
of the numberless tales of "how the good knight Sir
Bors or Sir Lamorak laid on either strokes, and how
they foined and lashed, and gave each other blows
till the blood ran down, and each stood astonied."  His
favourite knight was Sir Beaumains.  He admired
Sir Launcelot, but he was too far above him, while Sir
Beaumains was only a beginner, and went through
adventures which were not too far out of the common
as possibly to occur to himself.

And now he was on the actual road to fortune.
He was going to be trained in the household of a
great knight, live in a castle, and have daily instruction
with youths like himself, aspirants to fame and
martial deeds.

The fresh air of the morning seemed never before
so fresh, never had the birds sung so blithely.  How
springy the turf seemed under his horse's hoofs.  He
sang gaily as he trotted along, and flicked at the flies
that tried to settle on his horse's neck.

"Softly, Master Ralph," cried Humphrey.  "Thou
art a light weight, I know, but we have far to go, and
'tis best to let the cattle go quiet."

The Abbot had settled himself comfortably in his
saddle, and called his young kinsman up to him.
The servants fell a little behind, Humphrey trying to
draw the mendicant and his young daughter into
conversation.  But he only received short answers
from the man, while the girl barely answered at all.
The serving-man, unable to make anything out of
either of them, gave up the attempt, and began to
talk to the attendants of the Abbot.

It was a lovely June day.  All the country looked
crisp and bright in the clear sunlight.  The road lay
over a high hill, whence a broad landscape stretched
before them, then it dipped down into the old town
of Andover, where the cavalcade stopped before the
rambling old wooden hostelry, and the Abbot
refreshed himself with a cup of malmsey before they
entered on the rather wild track of forest and down
that lay between Andover and Winchester.

Leaving Andover, they crossed the low land on
each side of the Teste, and that river itself near
Chilbolton, and then rose over the steep acclivity of Barton
Stacey down, with its wide ridge of hills stretching
east and west in bleak loneliness, to face the sweeping
winds that roared over them from the south-west
bringing up the salt of the channel to invigorate the
sheep that browsed over their slopes.

The Abbot discoursed from time to time of the
various duties Ralph would have to fulfil, how he
must conduct himself towards his superiors, equals,
and inferiors; and his advice was certainly considerably
more worldly-wise than had been that of Ralph's
father and mother.

The boy listened attentively; but somehow, with
the quick intuition of youthful directness, he detected
the ring of worldly wisdom, as differing from the
ingenuous simplicity of his' parent's advice.  He
could not help being amused and interested with the
many little anecdotes with which the Abbot illustrated
and enlivened his advice, while he felt more
than ever how little he knew of the world and its ways.

"Now look you, fair kinsman," said the Abbot.
"'Tis a right thing, and one well-pleasing to Holy
Church, to be generous and free-handed; but 'tis not
wise to give blindly, and without due inquiry.  Thou
lentest yonder idle vagrant thine horse yesterday.
The holy saints guided him aright to thy father's
house; but he might, for aught thou knewest, have
just as well taken thine horse to Weyhill horse-fair,
and there sold him, or ridden away where thou
wouldst never have seen him more."

"But, my lord Abbot," cried the boy, "I liked the
sound of his voice, and his words were fair: he could
not but be honest."

"See there now; alack! good lack! the boy will
surely come to harm an he goeth on like that!  See
you not, fair kinsman, that an you hearken to all fair
words and gentle voices, you will e'en be stripped as
clean as a rose bush with a blight on it?  That is
what I say, wait and see.  I say not 'give not,' but
look well before you give.

"Then again in a quarrel--for hot youth must needs
quarrel--be wary how you enter in; see well that
your adversary is one from whom you can hope to
obtain honour,--one that if you vanquish him can yield
you due satisfaction and fair guerdon, or, if he should
vanquish you--for you must e'en look to both sides--that
he be one to whom you may yield without loss
of honour,--sithen he be so puissant a foe that there
is as much honour gained in encountering him as
there might be in overcoming another.

"In all things give heed and act discreetly.  Be no
tale-bearer, but listen well to all that goeth on.  In
all things serve thy master loyally; but be not so
besotted as ever to be ruined for any.  As for
ensample, if thy lord choose a quarrel that must needs
bring him to destruction, go not thou after him, but
save thyself in time; as rats are said to cross by the
hawser that mooreth a ship to the land, when they
know of their own natural sagacity that ruin
awaiteth that ship.  Only give him fair notice thereof
first.  See how, during the late civil commotions, the
Church hath acted discreetly, and saved her possessions
in the midst of the broil.  Even George, Archbishop
of York, allied as he was to the Earl of Warwick
and the Duke of Clarence, yet compounded with
the late King Edward IV., on whose soul may God
have mercy.  But, blessed saints! whom have we
here?  'Tis some noble baron, I doubt not, going to
Winchester too, unless, indeed, it be the train of my
Lord Woodville himself."

They had now reached a high bleak hill, and were
nearly at the point where another road joined the
one they were travelling by, which led from
Marlborough and Cirencester to Winchester.  Coming
along this other road, which led from Reading, and
just rising over the brow of the hill, Ralph could
see a party of well-armed men.  The dust from
their horses obscured them partly, but he could
make out that there were several footmen, carrying
the formidable bill which dealt such deadly wounds,
and gleaming above them were the helmets of two
or three men-at-arms.  The red crosses on their
white surcoats, or tabards, showed that they belonged
to the troops levied for the king, or at least raised by
some noble for service, for which it was customary to
take a contract.

"Ay, belike that's what they are," said the Abbot.
"Do you, Peter, now ride on, while I tarry here to
welcome my Lord Woodville; and take good lodgings
for the night in Winchester, for me and my kinsman
the Master Ralph de Lisle."

This was said to the chief of his lay brothers who
acted as his serving-men, and who were clad in a
dress very much resembling their lord's, but of a dark
colour, instead of white.

Ralph was glad they were going to wait to meet
the approaching party.  He had never seen a band of
armed men before, and he thought the appearance of
these very imposing, as the pennons of the mounted
men fluttered in the breeze.

"Ay, there's the banner of my Lord Woodville--he'll
not be far behind," said the Abbot, as another
little band mounted the hill, the centre figure carrying
a little square flag on the end of a lance, which gaily
waved its red and white colours as the horseman
moved to the swing of his steed.

It was a very pretty sight.  The wide-extending
view, over broad pasture and swelling down, the
distance hidden by a grey haze; the yellow road,
leading straight across the green grass of the down,
for the summer was hardly begun, while the gleaming
weapons, white surcoats, and fluttering banners,
mingled with the brilliant red of the crosses, and the
blazon on the flag, contrasted well with the deep blue
of the cloudless sky, fading away to the warm haze
of the horizon.  Gaily the grasshoppers chirped
among the wild convolvulus on the roadside, the
bees hummed over the clover, and the larks were
soaring joyously in the azure overhead.

Ralph gave a sigh of enjoyment--life was already
beginning.

The little party sat motionless on their steeds,
the Abbot having reined up his horse at the junction
of the two roads.  Ralph sat on his horse beside him,
and Humphrey, the other lay brother, and the sumpter
horses, were grouped behind them--while behind
them again was the poor man, leaning against the
pony on which his daughter sat, who had, however,
frequently insisted on her father taking her place.

Suddenly the Abbot remembered them.

"Beshrew me," he said, "I wish thy lady mother
had not saddled me with these beggars; it beseemeth
not a prelate like me to have such rapscallions
attending on him."

The girl noticed the impatience of the Abbot, and
partly heard his muttered words.

"Come, father, let us get hence before the others
come; we but disgrace the noble Abbot and his fair nephew."

"Nay, nay, stay now," said the Abbot testily,
relenting a little when he heard the soft voice of the
girl.  "'T would look worse an thou wert now to slip
off as though I were ashamed of thee.  Even stay
and brave it out.  After all, 'twill look seemly that
I be busied in the protection of the poor and
houseless.  Ay, marry! 'twill please my Lord Woodville
who ever jibeth at the pride of Mother Church, as he
calleth it, when I appear in the state befitting the
Abbot of the first house of our order in England,
and patron of the Chapel of St Nicholas in his own
castle of Carisbrooke.  Prythee stay: 'twill be well!"

The advanced guard had now reached the place
where the others were awaiting them.

The Abbot recognised the sergeant-at-arms who
led the little band.

"Why, how now, Tom o' Kingston, who'd have
thought to have met thee here to-day?"

"What, my Lord Abbot, you over here! 'tis my
noble lord will be right pleased to see thee," answered
a splendid specimen of a man-at-arms, clad from head
to foot in brown armour, his horse barbed and
protected with body arms as well.  He had his slender
lance slung behind him, and his long sword clanked
against the iron of his stirrup.  His moustaches
curled over the lower chin-piece of his salade or
helmet, and his eyes looked bold and fierce under the
shadow of its projecting peak.  Over his breastplate
he wore a loose white surcoat, blazoned with the red
cross of St George, while a heavy mace hung from
his high-peaked saddle-bow.  The effect of the
massive armour was to give the trooper the appearance
of immense width of chest and strength of body,
while in reality he was only of medium size, in
proportion to men of the present day.

"Is my Lord Woodville nigh at hand, worthy
Tom?" said the Abbot.

"Ay, my lord, he is just behind his banner,
attended by his own gentlemen, and some gentlemen
of France.  But I must be getting on, or the march
will be delayed.  Hast thou any further orders, my
Lord Abbot?"

"Nay, Master Tom; I will see thee again at
Winchester belike, where I would commend to thy
care this young springald here, who comes of gentle
birth, and is desirous of learning knightly feats of
arms under thy noble master."

"He shall be right welcome, whoever he is, but all
the more so that he cometh under thy commendation,
reverend lord.  'Tis a right gallant youth, and he
sitteth his horse full manfully."

So saying, the sergeant-at-arms clapped spurs to
his horse, made a salute with his gauntleted hand,
and trotted after his party, who had gone on while he
was exchanging greetings with the Abbot.

"Note him well, Ralph; he is one of the best
soldiers we have in our island, and he comes of gentle
blood too.  He is the most trusty of all the
men-at-arms belonging to my Lord Woodville."

The main body of the troops had now come close
to where they were standing.  The foremost ranks
passed them without any greeting beyond a respectful
salute to the Abbot.  The men marched along in
very loose order, for it was a time of peace, and they
were returning from the successful but deadly fight
at Stoke.  Several of them were bandaged on the
arm or head, and those who were wounded were
only lightly armed.

After this body had passed, a little interval elapsed,
and then came Sir Edward Woodville, commonly
called Lord Woodville, Lord and Captain of the Isle
of Wight, and knight of the Lancastrian order of
S.S.[\*]  He was attended by several gentlemen, mostly
English, but some two or three evidently French.
He was preceded by two men-at-arms, and three
mounted archers, all splendidly armed and equipped.
Behind him came a group of three or four pages, all
young men of good birth, aspirants to knightly rank,
and being trained in the household of Sir Edward
Woodville.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The origin of this symbol is not known.  Conjecture has varied
between the words "Soveraygno Seneschal" and the swan badge of the
House of Lancaster.  The collar formed a very graceful ornament, the
gold S.S. being linked together, or set on blue and white ribbon.

.. vspace:: 2

Ralph looked at these eagerly.  They would be
his future companions, and he felt a little shy at first,
as the boys all scanned him critically, making remarks
to each other the while in a low tone.

Lord Woodville instantly recognised the Abbot, and
greeted him cordially.  After the mutual salutations
were over, and the Abbot of Quarr had congratulated
him on the success of the King's arms, and his own
part in the fray, he introduced Ralph to him, as a
present from himself, telling Lord Woodville his
previous history and lineage.

At the mention of the word Lisle, a shade seemed
to pass over the tranquil face of the Captain of the
Wight, like a cloud shadow over the smooth slope of
a southerly down; but it passed as quickly as it came,
and although he examined the boy more attentively,
his expression had resumed its usual serenity.

The boy felt somewhat abashed as the calm grey
eyes of the distinguished knight and nobleman fell
upon him, searching him through and through;
but he scanned the countenance and appearance of
his future lord with shy interest, in spite of the awe
his glance produced.

He saw before him a gentleman of about thirty to
thirty-five years of age, in the prime of life, and
strikingly handsome.  For all the Woodvilles, both
male and female, were remarkable for their personal
advantages, and inherited the beauty of person which
had caused Jacquetta of Luxemburg, second wife of
the great Duke of Bedford, and the cause of the ruin
of the English power in France nearly as much as
the hapless Joan of Arc, to choose their father, a
simple country gentleman, for her second husband.
He was dressed magnificently, and very elegantly.
Covering his long dark chestnut hair, which hung
down on each side of his face, was a velvet bonnet,
ornamented with an ostrich plume on one side,
fastened by a brilliant ruby brooch.  Dark eyebrows
surmounted very expressive grey eyes; his complexion
would have been fair, had it not been bronzed
by long exposure in many a campaign and knightly
enterprise.  His face was clean shaven, and thus the
firm but sweet lines of his mouth were displayed to
full advantage.  A close-fitting lace collar round his
neck contrasted with the spiral ridge of his steel gorget,
which the richly-embroidered surcoat, cut straight
across the chest, from shoulder to shoulder, allowed
to be plainly visible.  The short sleeves of this
surcoat reached only to the elbows; the rest of his
person was encased in rich armour, while a gorgeous
gold-studded belt supported his straight long sword
and richly-jewelled dagger.  His helmet was carried
by an esquire fully armed, who also bore his lord's
lance.  A handsome collar of S.S., ending in a portcullis
badge, adorned his neck, while instead of steel
gauntlets he wore soft leather gloves, and a splendid
falcon rested on his right hand.  Another esquire
bore his lord's shield, and led a spare horse, fully
accoutred in body armour and housing for battle or tilt.

"So this is Master Ralph de Lisle, is it?" said Lord
Woodville, who had been appointed on the accession
of Henry VII. to succeed his unfortunate but
accomplished brother, Lord Scales, in the lordship of the
Isle of Wight.  "He cometh of an old Isle of Wight
family, and is heartily welcome to such training as he
can acquire in my poor household.  Truly an his
deeds shall answer to his fair outside, he will prove a
right hardy knight.  But tell me," he added, "is he
of near kin to old Sir William Lisle of Briddlesford?"

"Nay, my lord, not of close kin," replied the Abbot
of Quarr.  "Sir William's grandsire returned to the
land of his fathers in Harry the Fourth's reign.  As
thou knowest, he hath but one son and one daughter,
and he hath disinherited the son.  'Tis a sad story."

"Ah!  I had forgotten," said Lord Woodville.
Then turning to the old knight who rode a little
behind, he said, "Here, Sir John Trenchard, is one more
to add to your charge.  I deliver Master Lisle to
your care, knowing full well I cannot give him to a
better master of chivalry and gentle learning.  Teach
him as you so well know how, and the King will
gain a fine soldier, and you, my friend, more credit
than ever."

Lord Woodville then smiled graciously at Ralph
and turned to the Abbot to continue the converse
interrupted by the presentation of the boy.

So Ralph Lisle was introduced to his future Lord,
and from henceforth would be under the orders of the
good knight Sir John Trenchard, until he should be
declared worthy to rank as an esquire, and take part
in warlike expeditions.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW THE FLEDGLING GREW TO A COCKEREL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE FLEDGLING GREW TO A COCKEREL.

.. vspace:: 2

By the time Ralph had reached Winchester, he
had learned the names of his future companions,
and had already had occasion to experience their love
of practical joking, tempered, however, in this case, by
the presence of their lord and his gentlemen.

The eldest of the pages was Willie Newenhall, and
Ralph was not long in seeing that he was thought
little of by the other three, who made him a butt for
their wit, which, however, seemed to fall very
harmlessly on its object.

"You see he's so parlous full of conceit, he
never knows we are making game of him," said
Richard de Cheke,[\*] the youngest of the pages, and
by far the liveliest.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The old family of the Chykes, Cheikes, or Chekes, held the
manor of Mottestone from 1370 to 1600, from whom the manor passed
to the Dillingtons and Leighs of North Court.  Sir John Cheke of
their family was professor of Greek in Cambridge, and in 1544 was
tutor to Edward VI.

.. vspace:: 2

"But when he doth find out, certes he groweth
angry?" asked Ralph.

"Nay, what care we for his anger?  Even I, small as
I am, can teach him a lesson in all things, saving the
care of his person and the filling of his skin."

"Marry, young one," said a well-grown, shapely
youth, who was riding a little behind and to the left
of Ralph Lisle, "here's a missive of great import,
'tis even the business of the last come page to take
all such to our right worshipful bear-leader and
timber breaker, old Jack in Harness himself.  So do
thou take it, before worse comes of it."

So saying, the youth handed Ralph a bit of paper,
folded neatly, and addressed in a stiff scrawl, "Toe
ye rite worchipful Syr Jakke yn Harneis."

"And who is he?" said Ralph, looking at the
scrawl and then at the youth.

"Who is he, quotha? why, that you'll soon know,
an you do not my bidding.  That's the puissant,
right valiant, and thrice-renowned knight to whom
my Lord Woodville handed thee over, even as we
have been handed over, to learn chivalry, and all
courtesy.  Therefore say I, take you this to him
right promptly."

Ralph was a little puzzled.  The whole was said
so seriously, and in such evident good faith, that he
thought he might be violating some rule already.
The youth was obviously older than himself, and
was doubtless a page of some months' standing.
He thought on the whole it would be better to obey,
trusting to his good luck to get him out of the
scrape with their master if there were any trick,
and to his own arm to punish the perpetrator of
the joke, if it were one.

"Now, my youngling, what dost wait for?" said
the page, whose name was Eustace Bowerman,
and who was a second cousin of the lively young
page Richard Cheke.

"Why, in sooth I am in doubt whether thou art
not making game of me," said Ralph, with a
good-humoured twinkle in his eye.

"This cock will crow soon," said young Cheke
to the other page, who was on his right; "eh,
Maurice?"

"Marry will he.  We will pit him against Eustace;
they'll make a rare match.  Albeit Eustace is the
older, I'll lay the new one will beat him.  There's a
deal of weight in his thews.  Look at his leg as he
sits his hackney."

"Shall we tell him Eustace is making game of him?"

"Nay; best let him give the missive to old Jack
in Harness, and see what comes of it.  List; Eustace
is taking him to task.  I' faith, he doth it well."

"Hark ye, sirrah!  You are but just come out
of the country, or I'd be wroth with thee; but as
it is, I forgive thy manners.  Know that all new
pages have to do the bidding of the older ones
without question, under pain of a leathern strap,
and worse torment.  Now get thee on thy message."

"Nay, fair page," said Ralph smiling, "I would
be loth to do aught that should be misbecoming, and
will ever obey in all that I ought, with all humility,
but I am not sure in this that I ought to do your
behest.  Nevertheless, rather than be thought churlish,
I will do what you want, only not, I pray you to
understand, because I fear your talk of leathern
straps and such like, of which I have little dread
from thee, but because 'tis the first matter I have
been asked to do, and I would rather seem to be
over willing to oblige than churlish of mood."

"By my faith, 'tis a good answer," said the last page
who had spoken to Richard Cheke, and who was the
only one of the pages who was of high birth.  He
was a son of Anthony, Lord Scales, brother to Lord
Woodville, and therefore himself a Woodville, and
nephew to the present Captain of the Wight, which
office his father had previously held.

"I like this youth dearly, even now--he will be
a gain to us.  Thou knowest I never cared over-much
for thy kinsman Bowerman, he is so mighty
coxcombified, and I would much like to see him
overmatched," continued Maurice Woodville.

They had now entered the old city of Winchester,
whose streets were very narrow, and made more so
by the concourse of people, who all came thronging
out and stood at their doors and along the pavement
to see the gay troop pass.

Ralph, as he said he would deliver the note to Sir
John Trenchard, took the opportunity of doing so
when they were nearing the city cross, then not more
than about fifty years old, perhaps, and where there
was more room.  He rode up alongside of the old
knight, and, doffing his cap, presented to him the
missive.

The old knight, who was short-sighted and rather
choleric, besides being a very indifferent scholar, took
the paper, and stared at Ralph.

"Eh, this for me?" he said shortly; then holding
the piece of paper close to his nose, he called
out,--"Why--what--By St Thomas! what meaneth this?
Boy, art playing me some trick?  Is this a time for
thy discourteous pranks?" cried the old knight, in
high wrath, crumpling up the paper, and flinging it
at Ralph.  "Tell me what meaneth this!  Who gave
thee this?"

But Ralph determined he would bear the blame
himself, and settle it with his practical joker
afterwards, so he said,--

"Noble sir, I was told to give it thee, so I did."

"By St Nicholas! but if thou hadst had mud given
thee to bear to me, thou wouldst have done it,
wouldst thou?  Get thee back for a simpleton, and
tell me all afterwards, when I call for thee."

They were now passing a cross street, very narrow
and awkward.  There was a block in front, so that
Lord Woodville halted exactly opposite this street.
He was talking to the Abbot of Quarr, who was on
his left.  Ralph was immediately behind, but a
horse's length distant.  The rest of the gentlemen
were engaged talking together or looking up at the
windows, where the burgesses' wives and daughters
were gazing down at the gallant show of men-at-arms
and gentlemen.

Suddenly, a drove of cattle which was being driven
to market crossed the narrow street a little way down.
Among them was a magnificent bull--very fierce and
irritated with its journey.  Seeing the red blazon on
Lord Woodville's surcoat, with a bellow of fury he
broke from his driver and turned down the street
leading to where that nobleman was quietly sitting,
with his head turned away talking to the Abbot, and
rushed madly at him.  It was but a very little
distance, and there was no time for warning.  In
another second the fierce bull would have gored the
noble horse and trampled on Lord Woodville.

Ralph, without a moment's hesitation, struck spurs
into his horse, which gave a leap forward.  He had
thought of nothing but of interposing himself between
his lord and the raging brute.  Fortunately for him, he
was not in time.  But his gallant steed struck full
against the shoulder of the bull with such violence
that it knocked the animal over, and Ralph's horse
came down at the same time, flinging his rider over
his head.

The whole thing had passed so rapidly, and, from
the position of the chief performers in the occurrence,
was so little seen, that scarcely anybody knew what
had happened.  Lord Woodville was the first to
take in the situation, and seeing the position of the
bull, the horse, and the boy, was alarmed for the
latter's safety.  The horse had stumbled over the bull,
which was struggling and kicking wildly with its
legs, while, fortunately, Ralph had been thrown clear
of them both.  He still held the reins in his hands,
but he did not move.

"By'r Lady! the child's dead!" cried Lord Woodville,
drawing his sword, and leaning down from his
horse.  So close was the huddled mass of struggling
animals, and so narrowly had he escaped destruction,
that, without dismounting, he calmly passed the keen
edge across the upturned neck of the bull, which gave
a few wild plunges and then lay still.

"See to the horse," said the Captain of the Wight,
as he got off his own animal and went up to Ralph.
There was blood flowing from the side of his head.
He had been thrown with considerable force on to
the pavement.

The crowd began now to understand what had
happened, and the crush became great.

"Clear me a way, knaves!" cried Lord Woodville.
"Keep back the varlets, Sir John; and go for a leech,
Eustace Bowerman."

Humphrey had by this time made his way to the
place where the accident had occurred.  Directly he
saw it was his young master who was lying on the
ground, he pushed sturdily forward, regardless of
everyone.

"Body o' me! what will my lady say, if aught evil
should befal Master Ralph?  He isn't dead, my
lord?" he asked anxiously of Lord Woodville, who
was bending over the boy.

"Nay, he is not dead; but is there no leech nigh?"

At this moment a shopman came up to Lord
Woodville and offered to take the wounded gentleman
into his house out of the crowd.  This offer was
willingly accepted, and the boy was carried in by
Humphrey and Maurice Woodville.  They took him
into a back room, and the mistress of the house
bathed his head and staunched the blood.  Ralph
slowly opened his eyes.  Seeing the look of returning
consciousness, Lord Woodville left the house,
mounted his horse, and went on to his lodgings, which
had been taken for him near the cathedral.

Humphrey was left in charge, and the Abbot, who
had dismounted when he saw his kinsman taken into
the house, having seen that the boy was in safe hands
and doing well, went away also to his lodgings.

Very few knew how the accident had occurred, most
thought that the bull had charged the boy.  Only
Lord Woodville, Sir John Trenchard, and the Abbot
had seen the noble action of the boy.  His fellow
pages had seen him urge his horse forward, but
could not see for the projecting houses what else had
happened.  About half an hour after the accident, a
timid knock came at the door, and Humphrey was
surprised to see the young girl who had been their
companion on their journey to Winchester, standing
there when he opened it.

"Well, young wench, what dost thou want?" he
asked familiarly.

"My father has heard what has happened, and
as he could not leave thy pony, he has sent me to
ask how Master Lisle doeth," said the girl quietly,
and in an educated voice.

"Grammercy, 'tis parlous kind of thy father, and,
for a poor vagrant, it showeth much strange breeding.
Tell thy father Master Lisle doth well, and
will be on his legs anon."

The girl then shut the door very gently, and
Humphrey returned to the bedside of his young Master.

"Humphrey, I feel right hungry," said the boy
presently; "canst get me a bit of something to eat?"

"Ay, marry can I!" cried Humphrey cheerily.
"That's right good news--I'll be back anon," and
he left the room in search of some food.

He had scarcely been gone two minutes when
another rap came at the door.  Ralph bid them
come in, and Maurice Woodville, accompanied by
Richard Cheke, entered.

"Well, youngling, and how dost thou fare?" said
the latter, in a kind tone.  "Thou hast done well
for a beginner, and I'd give a good deal to be lying
there in thy place.  Why, Maurice, he's had the good
luck, hasn't he?"

"Ay truly.  Thy fortune's made, lad.  We've come
from the Lord Captain to inquire into thy estate, and
to bring thee these dainties from his own table, in
case thy wounds allow of thine eating."

"Grammercy," cried Ralph joyously, "my varlet
hath but now gone out to get me some provender, for
I feel parlous hungry."

"Then here's what will tickle thy gizzard right
merrily.  John, bring in the cates."

A serving-man entered bearing a basket, out of
which he took first a very clean damask cloth; this he
spread neatly on a table, which he placed close to the
bed; then he took out a dish covered with a plate.
he put a knife and fork and winecup by the side of
the plate, which he removed, and disclosed two
large salmon trout, with a garnish of fresh
watercresses.  A flagon of ruby red Burgundy followed,
flanked by some tasty-looking rolls, fresh butter, and
cheese.

"There, my friend, there's a dainty little banquet
for thee; eat, drink, and get well," said Richard.

Ralph sat up, he had his head bandaged.  He felt
in his wallet for his purse, and handed the servingman
a groat, and then he attacked the food with all
the ardour of a healthy appetite, contented with
himself and all the world.

Whilst their new comrade was refreshing himself,
the other pages talked of all their pastimes and
occupations, and freely discussed the virtues and
failings of their companions and superiors.  They made
no secret of their dislike of Eustace Bowerman, and
utter contempt for Willie Newenhall.

"I tell you what, Lisle, when you're quite game
again, we'll get up a tilt between you and Bowerman,
and I'll bet my greyhound pup to what you like,
you'll beat him," said Maurice Woodville.

"But I have never tilted yet," said Ralph, rather
ashamed of the admission.

"Oh, what matter; you sit your horse like a stout
jockey, and you'll very soon learn where to place your
lance.  Old Tom o' Kingston'll soon teach you that,
trust him!" cried Richard Cheke.

"Shall I get into a scrape with Sir Jack in Harness,
as you call him?"

"No fear.  Old Jack is a right good chap, and he'll
stand your friend.  He knew you were put up to that
game by one of us, and I don't doubt he knows very
well which it was; but even had you done it yourself,
what you did just now will make him your friend
for life.  He's a tough old ironsides.  His father
was constable of Carisbrooke Castle in good Duke
Humphrey's time, and he's seen a lot of hard knocks.
There's not much he loves, but he dearly loveth a hard
fight, and my Uncle Woodville."

"Ay, marry he doth," said Richard; "and you've
shown him you're made of good stuff for the one, and
saved the life of the other."

"It's great sport your coming just now.  Dicky
and I are a match for Bowerman together, but that
great lout Willie Newenhall just turns the balance.
He's a mortal coward by himself, but with Bowerman
to back him, his fat weight is too much for us; but
now you, with your stout limbs and big body, could
beat them both single-handed.  Do you ever get into
a rage?" said Maurice.

"No, not often," said Ralph, laughing.  "I was
always told to keep my temper.  Now, Jasper, he
often lost his, and so I thrashed him at most things."

"Ah!" said Maurice, sighing, "I wish I could keep
mine.  I do get so mad when Bowerman sneers at me."

And so the boys wiled away the time until
Humphrey came back with one of the servants of the
Abbot of Quarr, and a grave ecclesiastic, who was
the infirmarer of Hide Abbey.

The boys, with the courtesy which was especially
a part of their education, rose when they saw this
dignified monk enter, and remained standing while
he undid the bandages, and examined Ralph's cut.

"'Tis a light matter," he said to Humphrey; "thou
canst tell my Lord Abbot he need be in no wise
anxious--the boy will be healed by to-morrow.
Thou hadst best keep quiet to-day, young master,
and if thou hast a quiet night, thou mayest travel
to-morrow whithersoever thou mindest.  But drink
but little wine, my son, for wine is heating for a
wound, and may bring on fever."

"May we offer thy Reverence a cup?" said
Maurice Woodville.

"Thank thee, fair sir, but I touch not wine, except
it be ordered me."

However, Humphrey and the lay brother had no
such scruples, and quaffed off a cup each, directly
Dicky offered it them.

The two pages now took leave of Ralph, saying
they must not tarry longer, as their lord would wish
to hear how they had sped; but they promised to
come again as soon as they could.

When Humphrey and Ralph were alone, the latter
said,--

"Humphrey, it seems years since I left home, and
yet it was but four hours agone."

"Ay, Master Ralph, time flies apace when one is busy."

"Didst thou see to my horse?"

"Trust me, Master Ralph; he's ne'er a bit hurt,
not even a scratch.  He knocked over that bull like
ninepins, so they tell me.  But, marry, 'twas a mercy
you didn't get in front of him.  You mustn't be that
rash again.  Whatever would they have said to me
up Thruxton way?"

"Humphrey, I want you to see after that poor
vagrant and his daughter.  Mother was kind to them.
I would like to help them over to the Isle of Wight,
where they are going.  You have seen to my pony?"

"Not yet, but I will by-and-by."

"Then take them this noble, 'twill help them to
a night's lodging and food," said Ralph shyly,
drawing out a coin from his purse.

Humphrey took it surlily.

"I don't know as how you did ought to go giving
away your mother's presents like this, Master Ralph;
you'll be wanting all your money among them gay
springalds yonder, I'm thinking."

"Nay, Humphrey, do my bidding," said Ralph quietly.

And so Humphrey went off shaking his head, and
muttering,--

"Young master be right masterful.  The saints
grant he be not led astray to overmuch almsgiving.
I'd rather see him squander a bit on his own sports.
'Twould be more akin to his age."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OF THE COMING TO THE ISLE OF WIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   OF THE COMING TO THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

.. vspace:: 2

The next morning found Ralph Lisle refreshed
and eager for the day's work.  His head felt
quite well, and had it not been for a piece of plaster
which the infirmarer of Hide, who came to dress
his wound early in the morning, placed over the
cut, he would hardly have remembered the occurrence.

Neither the Abbot of Quarr nor Lord Woodville
had forgotten him.  The former sent some money
for his expenses at the worthy citizen's house, and
the latter sent him a tabard of white taffeta,
embroidered with the badge of the captain of the Island,
in all respects like the other pages, with a supply
of food from his own table; and the servant who
brought these was directed to say that they would
start at eight o'clock, and that he was to arrange
all matters with his host.

Punctually at half-past seven Humphrey brought
round Ralph's horse, well brushed and groomed, and
Ralph, looking more handsome than ever in his new
surcoat, with his sword buckled to his belt, and his
silver-hilted poignard, stood in all the pride of
conscious importance at the doorstep, the admired of
all the little street-boys and burgesses who were
up and about at that hour; while he was conscious
of many a girlish face looking out from the
casements of the houses opposite and above him,
glancing down smiles of approval, for all the city
knew what he had done, and who he was, the
Lisles of Thruxton and Mansbridge being
well-known throughout the county.

His worthy host and hostess were loud in their
regrets at his departure, and at first refused all offer
of remuneration, but Ralph pressed it on them with
so much gratitude and delicacy, that their scruples
yielded, and they accepted it with evident
reluctance, and only on condition that when he was a
belted knight he would come back and see them.
This was touching Ralph in his weakest point.
He promised with a conscious smile, and mounted
his horse amid the loudly-expressed admiration of
the little crowd.

As he rode down the street, Humphrey caught
sight of a well-known face.

"Why, there's old Dickon of Andover!  Dickon,
I say," he called out, "an you be a-going home
to-night, go up to Thruxton and say how you seen
the young master all well, and say as how he sends
greetings to my lord and her leddyship.  Ye mind now?"

"Oh, ay, I'se mind," cried back old Dickon,
stopping to gaze upon Ralph.  "Well now he do
look foine, to be sure."

And so they turned into the street where the
*cortège* was in waiting for the Captain of the Wight
to come out.

Ralph felt a little shy as he rode up to the large
body of archers and men-at-arms that blocked
up the street, but he soon felt at ease as he was
greeted kindly by Maurice Woodville and Dicky
Cheke, who were on the look out for him.

"Willie Newenhall is still stuffing," said the latter,
"and as for Eustace, he is putting the last touch
of paint to his cheeks; he's such a coxcomb, you'd
never guess half he does."

But now all drew up in order.  The men-at-arms
sat erect, and held their lances upright; the knights
and mounted archers drew their swords; the yeomen
and billmen held their halberds and bills at attention
and a flourish of trumpets announced that the Captain
of the Wight was issuing from the house.

As Lord Woodville came out, followed by his
guests, among whom Ralph recognised his kinsman
the Abbot of Quarr, he glanced quickly over the
assembled troop.  His keen eye took in everything,
but with the dignity befitting his rank he
never mentioned what he saw amiss at the time,
making a note of it in his memory, to call the
attention of the proper officer to it privately, while
if he saw anything to praise he always publicly
expressed his approval.

In the present case his eye fell on Ralph, but
knowing how trying it would be for the young boy to be
called out before all that assembly, he merely nodded
to him with a kind smile of recognition, and said,--

"Ah, there's my trusty young friend; right glad
am I to see him so blythe this morning.  Sir John
Trenchard, you will see to his comfort, I know."

He then mounted his steed, the stirrup being
held for him by Willie Newenhall, as the oldest of
his pages.

The captain of the guard gave the order to march,
and the leading files turned down to the right, and
directed their way to Southampton.

Ralph did not see much of the old city of Winchester,
but he had been there several times before,
and old buildings had little charms for him, with the
animation of life before him.  Men, not grey stones,
however skilfully carved, or however cunningly piled
up, were his attraction.

The delicious air of the morning played over his
face; the delightful sensation of being part of what men
stopped to look at, an object of awe and admiration,
this thrilled him, and he yielded to the temptation, so
natural to exuberant youth, of giving himself airs, and
thinking of his appearance.  At first the sense of
shyness had kept this feeling of self-admiration down,
but as he rode along, and noticed the glance of the
passers-by, how they stopped to gaze open-mouthed
at them, and how loud were the expressions of
approval at the fine appearance of the cavalcade, he
began to feel his own importance, and was fast
adopting the easy self-satisfaction of the other pages.

By the time they had reached Southampton, which
they did in rather less than three hours from leaving
Winchester, he felt on perfectly easy terms with
everyone, including Eustace Bowerman even, who, however,
did not seem inclined to be very friendly to him,
seeming not to relish the remark of Maurice Woodville
when he said,--

"Certes, Bowerman, Lisle oweth thee many thanks.
Had it not been for thy kind thought, he would never
have done so hardily as he hath.  He would have
been sitting his nag like any stick, such as you and old
Pudding Face, when the bull ran at our lord--but now
he hath gotten himself a name at the first start; our
Captain will never forget."

Bowerman bit his lip.  It was quite true.

"Marry, young Maurice, don't you be talking.  If
Lisle's horse took fright and bolted when the bull
came blundering down that alley, I don't see why the
Captain should make such a fuss about it."

"His horse didn't bolt," said Dicky hotly; "you
know right well Lisle spurred him in the way."

"Nay, Master Dicky malapert, I know no such thing."

"Then you don't know much, as I always said,"
retorted Dicky.

"Marry, Dicky, I'll have to wallop thee once more,
I see.  You're growing saucy again."

"Wallop me i' faith!" sneered Dicky; "I'd like to
see you doing it."

"Wait till we get on board the barge then, and
you'll soon be satisfied."

Willie Newenhall never engaged in these wordy contests.
He only thought of his appearance, when he was
going to feed again, or of the danger he was always
in from the fair sex, by reason of his own good looks.
The other pages knew well his weak points, and
would always chaff him on the risks he ran from his
many fascinations.

"I' faith, Willie, there's a pretty lass looking at
thee; and that's her brother, or sweetheart, with her.
How fierce he looks.  Ah, if you look at her that
way, he'll be murdering you presently," added Dicky,
as Willie looked round nervously, to see the group
his comrade was referring to, only to meet with a
jeering remark from the apprentice who was standing
by the girl, of "Hi, young round knave, pudding chops
or pig's eyes, what do you lack here?" or some
equally elegant observation, which caused Maurice
and Dicky to laugh derisively, and the men-at-arms
and archers, who were close behind, to grin broadly.

But Willie was far too stupid to make any retort,
he only grunted angrily, and leered at the people on
the other side of the street.

Then they passed through Southampton, under the
noble Bargate, with its figure of Bevis of Hampton,
and the giant Ascapart, whose reality all true
townsfolk believed in, and of whose doughty deeds with
Guy of Warwick Ralph had often heard and longed
to emulate.  The cavalcade rode down the long street
under the old west gate tower, and outside the
splendid old walls, on to the town quay.

Oh, the sight of the gleaming water!  Ralph had
never seen the sea before--how it glanced and sparkled
in the mid-day sun of June.  The dim haze of the
opposite shore, where stretched the New Forest away
and away far into the land and down the coast, with
all its memories of ancient times.  The splash of the
little waves, rippling before the fresh north breeze, as
they sparkled against the bluff bows of the unwieldy
barges or straighter stems of the swifter galleys.
How stately was the curve of a high-prowed, lofty-pooped
merchant ship as she came round to the helm,
while all her sails fluttered in the breeze as her bows ran
up in the wind, and the heavy splash told of the weighty
anchor dropping to the muddy bottom of the Teste.

Then the smells, the sounds, the cries.  Ralph
had never enjoyed life before.  All the instincts of his
race came out in him,--of that ancient race of the
island, whose origin was lost in the dim vista of
antiquity, whose lands belonged to the mysterious
sons of Stur long before the Norman Conquest, and
passed by marriage to De Lisle, if indeed De Lisle
was not simply the Norman form of expression for
the original lord of the island, for who could more
worthily be called "de insula" or "of the island" or
"De Lisle" than that family which was above all
others "of the island?" since the possessions of the
"filius Azor" or "Stur" are the most important of
any, as recorded in Domesday book.

The instincts of his sea-girt ancestors rose in him,
and Ralph Lisle gazed at the dancing water with
eager delight.

The scene of confusion that then followed delighted
him still more.  The getting the horses on board, the
telling off the various parties each to its own barge,
the excitement of pushing out into the stream, or
warping the larger vessels off to their kedge anchors,
which were dropped in the middle of the fairway,
all this was delicious, and Ralph felt he was in a
wonderful dream.

"Mind your eye, young Popinjay!" bawled a burly
seaman.  "Stand clear o' that warp now," as Ralph
took his stand on a large coil of rope near the bows.
"Such a gay bird as you should know better than
to stand on a warp that way.  Did yer think 'twas a
doormat?"

In a few minutes the barge was hauled out into the
stream, the anchor was right up and down.

"Haul away there," called the captain.

Out flapped the big foresail in the breeze, the jib
was run out, the anchor was up, and hanging at the
bows, already the water was chattering under her
stem.

"Now then, my lads, shake out that mainsail.  Look
alive there!" bawled the skipper, and the great white
sail dropped down from the mainmast and longyard,
where it had been brailed up, and swelled out in the
breeze, louder chattered the wavelets under the bow,
and merrily the seamen sheeted home the ropes.

Ralph had now time to look round him.  He was
on the same barge as Lord Woodville and his
immediate escort.  The horses with the grooms and
men-at-arms were on a large barge that was running
alongside of them.  On their right, but a little astern,
was another barge containing the rest of the troop,
and among them Ralph was glad to see the beggar
man and his daughter.

The baggage and vanguard had gone on early in
the morning, under the charge of Tom o' Kingston.

Ralph looked up at the swelling sails and the tall
masts.  The barge was bluff-bowed and high-sterned,
like those remnants of the Middle Ages the Breton
and Norman *chasses marées* of modern times, and
like them she carried three large lug sails, and one
jib, set far out on a high peaked bowsprit.

As this was the barge of the captain of the Island,
she was far better appointed than the other vessels.
Her sails were white, and adorned with the arms
of the Lord Woodville, argent, a fess, and canton,
gules, while the mainsail bore the arms of Newport,
the capital of the Island.  The ropes were all white
and new, and the decks and bulwarks were scrupulously
clean, and the latter fresh varnished.

Ralph was never tired of looking aloft at the large
blocks or pulleys, the strong ropes, the stout masts,
and the swelling sails lazily falling in graceful folds
as the breeze died down, or bellying out to the fresher
puffs of the fair weather wind.

He leaned over the side and watched the ripple of
the water as the hull glided through it.  How dark
green the sea looked on the side where the shadow of
the hull and sails fell, how mellow and blue it sparkled
on the side where the sunlight shone upon it.  He
looked at the other barges; they were rippling through
the sea, a little fount of water spouting up under the
cutwater, and glancing off the bows in a lovely curve
of spray, the one vessel all shadow, the other all
bright and gleaming in the sun.

The tide was running out strongly.  Swiftly they
flew past Netley, its abbey towers rising out of the
green woods, the toll of its bell sounding over the
water the hour of nones; gaily they flew past the
mouth of the Hamble, and in a short time were
gliding out by Calshott Spit, running before the
breeze into the stronger ripple of the main tide of
the Solent.

But long ere this Ralph had been summoned to
dinner, and for the first time he was called upon to
wait upon his lord.  It was his duty to serve him
with wine, and deftly he performed his task, for he
had been well taught at home.  The motion of the
vessel was scarcely perceptible, and his hand was very
steady.  After the Captain of the Wight and his
guests had been served, the pages sat down apart to
their repast, and Ralph was astonished at his own
appetite.

"I tell you what it is, little eyes," cried Dicky,
"you'll have to look after yourself, or Lisle will leave
you nothing to eat."

To this Willie Newenhall made no answer, but
glanced askance at Ralph, and eat away harder than
ever.

"There, there, Willie, dear, don't be afraid; he'll
leave you a bit, if you are a good lad, I don't doubt,"
laughed Maurice.

It had been Bowerman's duty to attend closely
upon his lord, and he had found no opportunity to
put his threat in execution.  However, now the
repast was over, he began to remember what had
passed.

"Dicky," he said, "come hither."

"Not I," said that lively young gentleman.  "You
can come here, if you want me."

"Be quiet, varlets!" called out Sir John Trenchard,
who was sitting on a settle on the deck not far
off.  "If you want to jangle, wait till you get
ashore."

They were now splashing through the tide, which
ran swiftly over the Brambles, the steersman keeping
the vessel's head well up to it, so as not to be carried
down past the Newport river.

Larger and larger loomed up the island.  Away to
their left lay Portsmouth and the ridge of Portsdown;
to their right they could see far down the Solent, point
after point standing up in ever-decreasing clearness,
until the distant Node Hill, above Freshwater, where
the land trended away to the south-west, loomed up
faint and grey in the shimmering haze of the lovely
afternoon.

Nearer and nearer they drew to the island, and as
they approached the land Ralph saw that a fine
stretch of water opened up ahead.

"The tide's making out amain yet," said the
skipper, approaching Lord Woodville, with cap in
hand.  "What will be your lordship's pleasure?
Shall we run in and anchor, and land your lordship,
or will it please you that we try to stem the tide?
Natheless it will be but a poor job we shall make
of it till the tide turns; and then we sha'n't have
water far up for some while."

"Run us ashore at Northwood,[\*] we will ride up
to Carisbrooke.  Our baggage can come up afterwards,
in the evening, when the tide makes enough to
float you up to Newport Quay."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Cowes as yet (1487) was not.  The building of the castles by
Henry VIII., sixty years afterwards, was the beginning of Cowes.

.. vspace:: 2

"Ay, ay, my lord."

Ralph watched the movements of the crew with
curiosity.  As they ran in before the wind, which was
very fitful, he saw them brail up the mainsail, then
as they ran up past the land, which was all covered
with woods and bush, they took in the foresail, and
gently, under the light pressure of the jib, the barge
slithered on the mud, close to a shingle hard, where it
was possible to disembark at low tide.

And now again all was confusion.  The other
barges ran in alongside the Captain's.  The gangways
were lowered down.  The horses with great difficulty
were partly lowered, partly driven out on to the
shingle.  The grooms and men-at-arms got out, and
led the horses up to form their ranks on the grass
sward at the foot of the woods, which then stretched
in unbroken verdure from Northwood Church to
Gurnard Bay and Thorness, forming part of the
King's Forest of Alvington, Watchingwell, or Parkhurst.

The Lord Woodville, when all was ready, disembarked
with his guests, and, attended by his pages,
he mounted his horse on the green grass above, great
state being observed, and great care taken, by laying
down mats and cloths, that he should not soil his
feet on the muddy shingle.

As soon as he was mounted, the order to advance
was given, and the cavalcade set off for Carisbrooke,
through the green woods by the side of the blue
Medina, glancing through the stems of the trees by
the roadside.  More than ever Ralph felt grateful to
the Abbot of Quarr for having presented him to so
puissant a chief, and one under whom he should
learn such courtesy and gentleness.  He felt sorry
to leave the sea and the ships, but rejoiced that their
journey lay along the water side.

Humphrey had disembarked with him, and Ralph,
looking back, saw that the beggar man and his
daughter were still on the other barge.

"We shall have to look sharp after our pony,
Master Ralph," grumbled Humphrey.

As they rose over the hill by Northwood Church,
where the churchyard was being prepared for the
approaching consecration, for up to this year the
few inhabitants had to go all the way to Carisbrooke
to bury their dead, Ralph looked back, and
thought he had never seen anything so pretty.
Below, lay the Newport creek, clothed in thick woods
on each side; beyond, stretched the blue Solent, the
yellow line of the Hampshire coast and the grey
distance blending with the mellow haze of the sky.
The three barges, with their masts sloping at different
angles, their great yards swinging athwart each other,
and the sails only partially furled, giving animation
and picturesqueness to the foreground, while above
all spread the blue vault of heaven, cloudless and
serene.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW THEY CAME TO CARISBROOKE CASTLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THEY CAME TO CARISBROOKE CASTLE.

.. vspace:: 2

The cavalcade as it drew near Newport was
formed into more precise array.  It behoved
the Captain of the Wight to enter the capital of his
little kingdom in becoming state.

The vanguard, under Tom o' Kingston, had been
sent on earlier in the day, the bailiffs and burgesses
of Newport had therefore received ample notice to
prepare for the reception of their Lord and Captain.

The military force of the island at this time was
much improved.  After the conclusion of the civil
war, Edward IV. appointed Anthony Woodville, Lord
Scales, the most accomplished knight as well as
finished gentlemen of his time, to be lord and Captain
of the Wight, in succession to his father, Richard,
Lord Woodville, Earl Rivers.  Under the martial rule
of this skilled warrior, the defences of Carisbrooke
Castle and the military force of the island seem to
have been put on a sound footing, and the military
tenures of the landlords who held their lands of the
"honour of Carisbrooke Castle" were carefully
inquired into, and their services duly enforced.  The
large powers possessed by the Warden of the Island,
in the reign of Edward III., as evidenced in the
commission granted to John de Gattesdon, show that
a vigorous Captain had ample means at his disposal
for mustering a formidable force, and that only the
supineness, or corruption, or absenteeism of the lord
of the island or his deputies could have allowed the
inhabitants to have fallen into such a state of despair
as two petitions, presented to the King and Parliament
in 1449, show that they had yielded to.  In short, if the
Captain of the Wight was a keen soldier and able man,
the forces of the island were smart and serviceable, and
if he were not, they fell into indiscipline and inefficiency.

Sir Edward Woodville, now Captain of the Island,
was in all respects a "righte hardie, puissant, and
valyant knighte," and took pains that all under his
command should be well-appointed and well-disciplined,
and as his appointment vested in his person
the supreme civil as well as military command, his
influence and authority were wide reaching--in other
words, he was a "strong" Captain.

The chief officials in Newport were the bailiffs,
for there was no mayor or court of aldermen for
more than a hundred and seventeen years after this
date, and they acted as deputies for the Captain of
the Wight in all matters relating to the business of
the borough of Newport.  These officials now came
out, arrayed in all the dignity of their office,
accompanied by the chief burgesses of the town, and
attended by Tom o' Kingston and the body of
archers and men-at-arms he commanded.  The
populace, naturally eager to see all pageants, crowded
out of their houses, and by the time the procession,
issuing from the town over the bridge to the north,
had reached the Priory of St Cross, it had attained
to very considerable proportions.  Several of the
neighbouring gentry had ridden in and joined the
concourse, with their servants and dependants.
Chief among these was conspicuous a martial figure,
attended by a very lovely girl, and followed by four
stalwart yeoman, well mounted and appointed.
When the *cortège* had reached the gate of the
Priory of St Cross it halted, and in the meadows
at the foot of Hunny Hill the concourse found room
to see the reception of their Lord and Captain.

Soon after the arrival of the bailiffs and their
attendants, the gleam of spear points, bills, and
halberds showed over the brow of the steep hill
that descended abruptly to the little town.  Soon
afterwards the Lord Woodville himself appeared,
attended by his household and guests, and followed
by the main body of his mounted archers and men-at-arms.

As Ralph looked down into the valley below he
was struck by the gay prospect.  The bright tabards
and glancing weapons of the men-at-arms gave
colour and life to the picture, mingling as they did
with the soberer dresses of the townsfolk, with their
wives and daughters.  The high pointed head-dresses
of some of the dames, and the horned caps of others,
whence transparent draperies hung in the wind, much
to the annoyance of their male relatives, who had
either to take care not to become entangled in them,
or else to run the risk of sharp reprimand or scornful
look, added a quaint variety to the scene.  The
banner of Newport flaunted its blazon in the breeze,
side by side with the arms of Woodville and the
royal arms.  Beyond were the red tiles of the old
houses, the streets, neat and orderly, the tower of
the Church of St Thomas, rising above the houses,
and, behind all, the steep down of St George's to the
left, and the range of downs stretching away to the
right, with the vale of the Medina between, from
which the mist of approaching evening was already
beginning to rise, while from out the valley to the
right the noble pile of Carisbrooke Castle rose clear
and grand in all its feudal beauty, lately restored,
and rendered wellnigh impregnable to the forces
of mediæval warfare.  How splendid it looked, its
walls and battlements, turrets and bastions, lighted
up by the westering sun, the dark shadow of the
smooth slope of Buccomb down forming a background
to the ruddy pile, and the donjon keep
standing up grim and distinct amid the lesser towers
and roofs, flinging defiance to the assaults of men and
time alike in the flag on its summit.

Such was the scene Ralph looked upon, but as
they descended the steep hill his eyes became fixed
on the throng of people awaiting them, and once
more he felt a sense of shyness come over him.  He
was not yet used to being looked at.  His fellow-pages,
however, were quite unconcerned, and were
passing remarks freely among themselves under
their breath, as they recognised faces in the crowd.

"Marry! there's old Billy Gander.  How red his
nose is!  Why didn't he get some of thy powder
thou art so fond of, Bowerman?"

"And look! there's Dicky Shide.  By St Anthony! but
he's got a worse squint than of old.  Poor old
Squint Eye!"

"Willie, my swain, there's Polly Bremeskete.  I
wouldn't let her see thee, that I wouldn't.  She told
Tom o' Kingston she meant to marry thee, come
next Peter's day.  And she always keeps her word."

"By'r lady, there's Yolande de Lisle; she looks
more lovely than ever!"  And Eustace Bowerman
drew himself up, and sat his horse with greater
importance than before, while even Richard Cheke
and Maurice Woodville looked conscious, and glanced
at their dress, squared their toes, and sat more
erect on their steeds, holding their horses tighter
with their knees, and making them step in lighter
action.

Ralph glanced to where Bowerman had descried
the object of all this homage, curious to see who it
was that bore his name.  He had heard that a
great-uncle of his had returned to the island home of his
ancestors in King Harry the Fourth's reign, but he
had forgotten all about it, and had never given such
remote genealogical questions a thought.  However,
now he heard the name mentioned, he recollected
what he had been told, and what his father
had said about the disinherited son, and the only
daughter.

He had not to search long for the young lady who
created so much admiration among the pages.

Sitting her palfrey with easy grace, and perfectly
at home amid the noisy crowd and free manners
of the rough troopers, was a girl or rather young
woman of about eighteen or twenty, of very graceful,
although somewhat robust, proportions, but remarkable
for her brilliant complexion, lovely features,
and sparkling blue eyes.  Fun and health glowed in
every line of her face, in her masses of wavy fair
hair, which refused to be confined under the prim
cap and horned head-dress in which the fashion of
the time struggled hard to reduce them to order,
in her soft cheeks, red lips, and graceful rounded
figure.  Ralph thought there never was anyone so
lovely in the whole world.  He forget everything.
He gazed at her in rapt admiration, utterly
oblivious of all that was going on.

"By my halidome, Master Page, whither goest
thou?" said the grating voice of Sir John Trenchard,
against whom Ralph bumped with a sudden jerk, as
the troop stopped for Lord Woodville to receive
the homage of his subjects.  "Canst not see where
thou goest, or keep a fitting distance from thy
betters?  Draw back to thy fellows, I say."

Thus roughly aroused, Ralph, much abashed, reined
up his horse, and backed it to a line with the other
pages, who were grinning from ear to ear at his
luckless mistake; but what made him more uncomfortable
still, was that he saw the fair object of his
admiration had witnessed it all, and was smiling
meaningly at Eustace Bowerman.  He began to
envy that page in a way he would not have thought
possible before.

But Bowerman was all smiles and amiability now.
He nodded familiarly to one person, haughtily to
another, and most expressively to the lady on
horseback.  But she, after the first glance of
recognition and amusement, looked no more his way,
being occupied with gazing at the Captain of the
Wight and the two French knights who were with him.

Ralph, as soon as he had recovered from his
mortification, tried to keep his eyes away from
Mistress Lisle, and watched what was going on.

After the bailiffs had done homage, and congratulated
Lord Woodville on the success of his expedition,
the burgesses came forward and performed their
part of the ceremony, being greeted kindly by the
Captain, who was evidently very popular.  Ralph
noticed that the old knight who sat his horse so
firmly, and held up his head so proudly, was greeted
with especial respect by Lord Woodville, who also
exchanged very courteous salutations with the lovely
lady of the golden hair, to whom he presented the
two French knights, who, with their proverbial
gallantry, seemed to be paying her compliments
which, as they could not be too flattering, seemed
not unwillingly received.

The ceremonies over, the cavalcade reformed.  The
bailiffs and the burgesses heading the procession,
they then defiled over the bridge, and passed into
the town.

Ralph had now recovered himself sufficiently to
ask who that old knight was who looked so striking,
and to whom Lord Woodville had paid so much
attention.

"Ay, certes, you may well ask," said Maurice
Woodville, "for he is, or ought to be, a kinsman of
thine own, seeing he beareth the same name as thyself,
and, for aught I know, the same coat armour."

"Nay, for the fair lady weareth on her mantle a
coat argent with a chief gules charged with three
lions rampant of the field, whereas my father beareth
or a fess between two chevrons sable."

"Well, you must e'en settle that as best pleaseth
you; all I know is that he is called Sir William de
Lisle of the Wood, or, as our chaplain would have it,
'*Dominus de Insula de Bosco*,' which, to my thinking,
isn't half as pretty as the English."

"And is that his daughter?" asked Ralph shyly,
thinking of his father's words with keener interest.

"Ay, marry is she, and the loveliest demoiselle in
all the Wight, and the world to boot, say I!" answered
Maurice, with enthusiasm.

At the corner of St James Street, where it intersected
the High Street, there was a halt.  Here the
Abbot of Quarr took leave of Lord Woodville, for
his road lay down High Street, and so to his
monastery.  Sir William Lisle and his daughter,
much to her regret, also took leave; but Lord
Woodville, before parting with the Abbot and the old
knight, called to Ralph to come up; who, with some
embarrassment, rode forward, and was by Lord
Woodville presented to Sir William Lisle and the fair
Yolande.

"Sir William, I have a kinsman of yours I would
fain make you acquainted with.  This fair youth hath
already begun right manfully, and I dare vouch will
prove a full knightly twig of thy own worshipful
stock."

Sir William de Lisle looked at Ralph, as he
thought somewhat sternly, but his words were kind.

"Fair young sir, I am right pleased to hear thee
so well reported of.  'Twill give our daughter and me
joy to see thee at our poor home of Briddlesford,
whenever thy noble Captain can spare thee.  Thou
wilt find good sport for thy hawk in the woods and
creek of Wodyton, and along the banks of King's
Quay; only beware how thou fliest him over the
lands of the Abbot of Quarr, for he is a strict
preserver of his own demesne."

As Sir William said this, he glanced at the Lord
Abbot, and a merry twinkle was in his eye, for many
had been the discussions over the rights of the respective
demesnes, for the lands of the Lisles bordered on
those of Quarr Abbey, and hot had been the
complaints of Sir William that idle monks had been
caught setting traps in his lands, which had led to
counter charges on the part of the monks.

"And forget not, fair cousin, if thou shouldest be
tempted our way, to bring over some of thy fellow
pages with thee; for without them thou wilt be
parlous dull, seeing there is naught at home to amuse
thee saving my poor self; and one poor girl is but
sorry sport for a merry page," said Yolande, with a
demure smile, as she turned her palfrey to accompany
her father.

Ralph longed to say something that would become
him, but he felt very shy amid all that concourse of
people, with his comrades watching, and the French
knights and Lord Woodville all looking at him; he
could only stammer out his thanks, and bow low over
his saddle.

"Fare-thee-well, kinsman mine," said the Abbot;
"give diligent heed to thy instructors, reverence
those in authority over thee, and attend carefully to
the ministrations of worthy Sir Simon Halberd, who
will give me frequent account of thee when he cometh
to Quarr."

"Grammercy, my Lord Abbot, I owe thee many
thanks for thy great kindness in giving me to so
noble a lord," said Ralph, who, now that the bright
eyes of his fair kinswoman were not gazing at him
with the amused look which so disconcerted him,
felt his presence of mind returning, and was able
to answer with his customary boldness.

And so the cavalcades parted, Mistress Yolande
giving a farewell glance of Parthian destructiveness
at the French knights, but deigning no more to
notice such simple things as innocent pages.

"By St Nicholas, Bowerman, you are always to be
luckless now!" laughed Maurice.  "But yestere'en
you helped Lisle to the best bit of good fortune he's
likely to have for some time; and now he's called
up before all of us to be presented to our fair princess
of the golden hair.  Didst see how kindly she smiled
on him?" he added mischievously.

"Body o' me! an' you hold not your jabbering
tongue, I'll flay you when we get to the castle!" said
Bowerman savagely.

"Nay, fair youth, be not wroth; 'tis not I who
got Lisle all this good luck.  Virtue is its own
reward.  Be happy! sweet damoiseau, and rejoice in
thy good nature.  'Tis true, 'tis not often you do a
fellow a good turn; so be happy when you do."

"All right, my young cockerel, tarry but the nonce.
My time will come anon," said Eustace, in furious
dudgeon.

Ralph had fallen back as the procession moved
on.  All the pages were well known in Newport, and
the doings of the little court at the castle were
intimately discussed.  The characters of each of
the principal members of the garrison were well
known, and any new arrival was critically examined
and freely talked about.

.. _`THE CAPTAIN OF THE WIGHT ENTERING CARISBROOKE CASTLE`:

.. figure:: images/img-078.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: THE CAPTAIN OF THE WIGHT ENTERING CARISBROOKE CASTLE.

   THE CAPTAIN OF THE WIGHT ENTERING CARISBROOKE CASTLE.

The worthy burgesses' wives and their fair
daughters much regretted that the Captain of the
Island was not married.  The lady of Sir John
Trenchard presided over the domestic part of the
castle, and did the honours when ladies paid it a
visit.  But she was not of an amiable disposition, and
it was popularly reported that her worthy lord's
little asperities of temper, and sourness of look,
arose in great measure from the austere frigidity of
this eminently respectable matron, who, however, as
Ralph subsequently found, was at heart a very kind
and sweet lady.  The reasons for Lord Woodville
being still a bachelor were variously stated, and all
hotly asserted by their different supporters, who one
and all had their information on undoubted private
authority, which they were not at liberty to divulge.
The only fact that really was known, however, was
the simple one that there was no Lady Woodville.
The head of the column was now mounting the steep
ascent to the castle, and Ralph noticed the splendid
position of this noble fortress.  The sun was getting
low on the western horizon; the level rays bathed
all the long valley away to the west in a rich golden
haze, falling full on the grandly-proportioned towers
of the main guard.  The massive walls, pierced for
archery, and crowned with their projecting machicolations
and graceful parapets, were not yet clothed
with the growth of yellow and grey lichen which has
been slowly painting them for the last four hundred
years.  The stone was yet fresh from the hand of
the mason, and above the great gate, high up on
the parapet, could be seen the arms of Lord Scales.

"My grandfather had that done!" said Maurice
proudly, pointing up to the noble gateway as they
tramped over the drawbridge, and passed out of
the warmth of the sunlight under the heavy
portcullis, and between the massive iron-studded oak
doors, which were swung back to allow the Captain
of the Wight and his "meynie" to enter, and then
slowly and harshly swung back as the last
man-at-arms clanked over the drawbridge, shutting out
the sunlight and the outside world.

The guard under the archway presented arms,
the trumpets sounded a flourish, and out into
the sunlight, whose rays just passed between the
towers, and touched his plume, rode the lord of
the castle, and of all those stalwart men.





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.. _`HOW THE COCKEREL SHOWED FIGHT`:

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   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE COCKEREL SHOWED FIGHT.

.. vspace:: 2

The days passed rapidly by after Ralph Lisle
had become part of the retinue of the Captain
of the Wight.  Each day brought its busy round of
occupation.  There was the early practice, before the
morning meal, at throwing the bar, running at the
quintain, and leaping over the wooden horse.  Every
exercise was directed to bringing fully into play all
the muscles of the body, and especially such as were
most needed in the handling of the lance, and the
management of the war horse.  After the morning
meal, at which the pages had their table apart in the
hall of the Lord Woodville's apartments, which at
that period were very much in the same position as
the Governor's lodgings were at a later time, when
added to and repaired by Sir George Carey, those
pages who were not on duty went through a course
of "grammar and rhetoric," under the instruction
of Sir Simon Halbard, the chaplain of St Nicholas
within the walls.  The whole garrison, or at least
such part of it as could be spared from their duties,
always attended mass every morning, for the Lord
Woodville was a strict disciplinarian, and enforced
the precept of the Church with the rigid punctuality
of a Grand-Master of the Temple.

The "book-learning," as the pages called it, occupied
about three hours, and then preparations were made
for the mid-day meal, the most important of all the
meals of the day.  This repast was served in much
state, all the pages being required to attend to carve
and hand the dishes, and pour out the wine for the
Captain of the Wight and his guests, or the knights
of his household.  After those of highest rank were
served, the pages sat down to their repast, presided
over by the senior esquire.

The afternoons were spent either in attendance on
their lord, or in private amusements and exercises of
their own.  No one of the pages was allowed out of
the precincts of the castle without Sir John Trenchard's
leave, but this was usually very easily obtained.

So passed the days in healthy exercise and
wholesome occupation.  There had been many little
bickerings, and even personal struggles between the
pages, but, boy-like, they had been brief, and, on
the whole, the life was very pleasant.  Ralph had
ridden over with Maurice Woodville to pay his
relatives a visit at Briddlesford.  They had met his
fair cousin, who was riding out to fly her hawk; and
as they accompanied her to a high hill, whence a
lovely view was obtained all over the Solent and far
inland from the New Forest and Beaulieu on the left to
Chichester and even the hills above Arundel on the
right, they were surprised to meet one of the
Breton, or French Knights, as they called them, riding
out there, quite unattended.

There had been much talk about the business of
these Bretons with the Captain of the Island.
Merchant ships, bringing salt and other commodities
to Newport from Nantes and St Malo, had reported
how unsettled was the state of Brittany,
how the Duke of Orleans and the Prince of Orange,
both nephews of the old Duke of Brittany, had
fled to him, to his castle of Malestroit, and how
the armies of the King of France, who was himself
but a boy, but whose affairs were wonderfully
managed by that very wise and puissant lady the
Dame de Beaujeu, his sister, had entered the country,
and how all would go to utter ruin, unless King
Henry sent force of knights and men-at-arms to
assist the Duke of Brittany and his fair young
daughter the Duchess Anne.  Such news was bruited
abroad, and there was no young knight in England
who did not burn with ardour to lay lance in rest
for so great a princess, and against the hereditary
foe of England.  All men knew, therefore, that the
Sire de Kervignac and the Vicomte de la Roche
Guemené were come to solicit men-at-arms and
archers, and there was not one of the garrison of
Carisbroke Castle who did not heartily wish they
might succeed, and perhaps no one wished it more
than Master Eustace Bowerman.

After the customary courtesies had been
exchanged, Mistress Yolande urged the two pages
to fly their hawks at a heron, which was busily
feeding on the rich weeds far out on the mud at
the mouth of a creek called King's Quay.  The
boys, nothing loth, cast off their birds, and rode
eagerly after them.  But whether it were that the
wood was too thick, or the country too rough, the
lady did not follow them, while the knight stayed,
as in duty bound, to escort her, and so the boys
lost sight of them for the rest of the afternoon.
And not only did they suffer this disappointment,
but, what was almost worse, Ralph's falcon killed
the bird, but fell with it so far out on the mud
that it was impossible to get at it, although the
boys did everything they could to urge their dogs
to go on to the treacherous slime, and bring the
quarry to land.  The tide was quite low, and they
had to give up all hopes of obtaining more sport.
It was with much difficulty, and after long waiting,
that they were able to get the falcon to fly back to
fist, for it was taught not to leave its prey until
some one came to take it.  When at last they did
recover the bird, the afternoon was too far advanced
for them to return by Briddlesford to inquire after
Mistress Yolande, and bid good-bye to Sir William
de Lisle, which Ralph would dearly have liked to
do; and he was, besides, in such a state of mud from
having tried to recover the bird, that they thought
it best to return to Carisbroke without being seen
by any one.  Riding home as fast as they could,
they made a *détour*, to avoid passing through
Newport, and reached the castle just before the gates
were shut for the evening.  When they got back,
and related the events of the afternoon, they found
Eustace Bowerman, who was already sulky enough at
not having been asked by Ralph to accompany him
instead of Maurice Woodville, in a towering temper.

"You blind moles," he growled, "why did ye
not cleave to Mistress Lisle and that jackanapes
of a Frenchman?  What geese ye must have been,
to have been shaken off like that.  But I'll talk
to that jackanapes anon, that I will.  What does
he mean by coming over here and sporting in our
covers?" and Eustace Bowerman flung himself out
of his chair, and went to the oriel window, which
looked out into the courtyard of the castle.

"I' faith, Eustace, my Trojan, don't you call me
a goose again," said Ralph good-humouredly, but
with a determination in his tone.

"And prythee why not?" said Eustace, who was
glad of anything to vent his ill-humour upon.  "None
but a goose would show the white feather as you
did, riding away from that dandified Frenchman."

"I never showed the white feather yet," said
Maurice hotly, "and if you say that I did, you lie
in your throat."

Eustace was not in a humour to take things
quietly.  In a passion at these words of Maurice, he
rushed across the room, and would have flung himself
upon him, had not Ralph put out his foot, and tripped
him up.  He fell heavily to the ground, greeted by a
roar of laughter from Dicky Cheke, who scented the
battle from afar, and chuckled at the approaching
crisis.

"Oh, cocks and pies, my swaggering imp, look you
there!  You've split your new trunk hose all down
the leg.  Fie, man, you're not fit to be seen; run away
and get old Gammer Tibet to sew it up for you."

But Eustace rose in a more towering rage than
ever.  He turned upon Ralph, and struck at him with
all his force.  But Ralph had not been learning
martial exercises for nothing, and although he was
four years junior to Eustace Bowerman, yet in height
and activity he was in no way his inferior, although his
frame was not as well set, or his weight and strength
as great as that of his assailant.  With ease, therefore,
he knocked down the blow that Eustace aimed at him,
but refrained from replying by a blow in return.

"Bowerman, I don't want to fight," said Ralph
quietly; "why get into a rage about nothing?"

"So you don't want to fight, eh?  I thought not,"
sneered Eustace, who was in a very evil mood.  "Then
I want to thrash you, so you'd best take it quietly."

Ralph, seeing that there really was nothing else for it,
although he was of a very peace-loving, happy disposition,
stepped back, and awaited his antagonist's assault.

Bowerman, who saw how reluctant Ralph was to
fight, mistook this backwardness for cowardice, utterly
forgetting, or else wilfully misinterpreting, the brave
action of the boy at Winchester.

He advanced upon him with a fierce scowl of
concentrated hate, and aimed a blow right at Ralph's
face; but the boy guarded it with his right arm, and
at the same time with his left dealt his assailant a
swift and well-planted blow full in his chest, causing
him to stagger back and gasp for breath.

"Well done, Lisle!" cried Dicky Cheke, in an
ecstasy of joy and excitement.  "Do it again, my
lusty lambkin; follow it up with one on his nose
that'll spoil his beauty for some time."

"Why don't you give it those little bodikins?"
stormed Eustace to his ally Willie Newenhall, as he
prepared to attack Ralph again.

"Because he's afraid, the big booby," laughed Dicky
derisively.

Bowerman, seeing that his antagonist was not to be
despised, determined to close with him and overpower
him by his superior weight.  Stepping back therefore,
to gather way for a rush, he was about to spring upon
Ralph, when that boy, with the instinct of a general,
anticipated him, darting forward to meet him, and
pounding him with blows.

The delight of Dicky was a treat to behold.  He
danced, jumped, sang, whistled, and at last, forgetting
everything in the wild madness of the moment, he
flung himself upon Willie, and belaboured him right
manfully.  That stolid youth was looking on with a
lack-lustre expression on his fat face, and marvelling
to see how Ralph dared to stand up to Bowerman,
whom he had always looked upon as invincible.  He
was roughly aroused from his stupid contemplation
of the contest, by Dicky Cheke's unprovoked assault.
When once aroused, however, his greater age and
weight told heavily in his favour, and poor Dicky
would have paid dearly for his temerity, by being
crushed under the dead weight of "Pig's Eyes," as
he called him, had not Maurice Woodville assailed
him with vigour in the rear.

The uproar now waxed furious.  Ralph, who
had gained a decided advantage by becoming the
assailant, was pounding his adversary with hearty
alacrity, not without receiving, however, very severe
blows in return.  The two smaller boys had got
Willie down, and were pummelling him with right
good will, while he roared lustily to Bowerman to
come and take "these little fiends off him."

In the midst of the confusion the door opened, and
the Captain of the Wight appeared, attended by the
other Breton knight, the Sire Alain de Kervignac.

So busy were the combatants, that none of them
noticed the interruption, and for a second or two
fierce blows were exchanged before any one was
aware that there were spectators.

Dicky Cheke was the first to catch sight of the
calm face of his lord, over which an amused
expression flitted.

"Holy saints!" he gasped, suddenly stopping in
the act of planting a well-directed blow in the
prostrate Willie's eye, who was at the same moment
pounding Maurice in the chest, "here's the Captain," and
he sprang up, breathless and confused, hastily adjusting
his disordered dress as best he could.

The others were equally startled, and for a second
or two there was a very awkward pause.

"Well, young gentlemen, I see you have taken the
lessons of the tilt-yard to heart; but I should wish
you to remember that it better becomes you to tilt at
the quintain, or even at each other, with lances, than
grovel on the ground, and spoil your clothes in this
unseemly brawl."

The youths all looked very much abashed, but
Lord Woodville would not see that it was a real fight
that was going on; he treated it as a mere trial of
strength, and continued:--

"I have brought this noble Breton knight to see
you, for he purposes, together with his right valiant
companion in arms, the sire de la Roche Guemené, to
hold a joust against all comers, and he fain would see
if I cannot spare the stoutest of my pages to make a
trial of arms before the ladies of our island.  How
like you this, my varlets?"

There was no need to ask.  The flushed faces and
bright eyes showed how welcome such news was;
only the three younger boys looked a little crestfallen,
for they knew they were too young to be allowed to
tilt in the lists, even supposing the two others were so
highly favoured.

"I see by your looks you like the news well.
Master Bowerman and Master Newenhall, I hear
from Sir John Trenchard that you are now of an age
when you may make public trial of arms, I therefore
appoint you my esquires, and give you permission
to joust with spears on the first six courses, but not
to take part in the tourney with swords."  Then seeing
the looks of disappointment in the faces of Ralph
Lisle, and his two comrades, he added,--"And you,
fair pages, must rest you content for another year,
when you be grown older.  And now, my masters,
set your dress in order--contend no more; and do
thou, Ralph Lisle, come hither with me."  So saying,
Lord Woodville left the room, followed by the Breton
knight, and speedily joined by Ralph, who stayed a
second to put his dress tidy.

"My page," said Lord Woodville to Ralph, as soon
as he had come up with them, "take this missive
to the hermit who dwells on St Catherine's hill.
Thou knowest the way--'tis where thou wentest
hunting with me last week.  Take the best horse out
of my stable, and ride like the wind; wait for an
answer, and bring me back word right quickly.  I
have chosen thee for thy good riding, and fealty
to me.  Talk to no man, but do my bidding
straightway."

Ralph was delighted at this mark of confidence.
He took the note, and turned away to go to the
stables.  As he was going out of the door of the hall,
he heard Lord Woodville say,--

"I marvel where sire Amand de la Roche Guemené
hath gotten to?  I have not seen him all day."

Ralph paused.

"My lord, I saw him this afternoon.  He met us
with Mistress Lisle, and we left them together when
we flew our hawks."

"Marry you did!" said the Captain of the Wight,
glancing at his companion; and adding, in a voice not
intended for Ralph's ear,--"Fair knight, we shall have
to take care that thy gentle companion doth not spoil
our island of its comeliest damoiselle."

As Ralph rode across the courtyard, he met
Humphrey, who was astonished to see his young
master riding forth so late, for the sun was just setting,
and the gates were shut for the night; but Ralph
with great pride told him, he was riding forth in all
haste on the business of the Captain, and the worthy
varlet shared in his young master's importance.

At the sight of the pass given to Ralph by Sir
John Trenchard, the captain of the guard ordered
the gates to open, and the heavy rattle of the chains
showed that the drawbridge was being let down, and
in another moment Ralph rode out into the glorious
light of the after-glow which illumined all the sky to
the west.

With a light heart he heard the heavy drawbridge
creak up again, and, rejoicing in his freedom, he put
spurs to his horse and rode fast over the hill, away
towards the distant downs to the south.  His horse
was fresh, and, under Ralph's light weight, cantered
swiftly along.  He knew the way, or at least thought
he did, and took no notice of objects; his mind was
full of the approaching tilt, and his one idea was how
he could obtain leave from Lord Woodville to let him
splinter a lance.  And so he cantered on in the
ever-increasing gloom, not seeing how dim it was
growing, or how damp a mist from the sea was drifting
down the valley.  The few roads that went through the
island were bad in the most frequented parts, but in
the cross tracks over the downs to the back of the
island they were little more than muddy quagmires
in wet weather, and ruts hard as rock in fine.  Ralph
galloped past Gatcombe, belonging to the Bremshotts,
the last male of which family was then very old, and
his lands were about to pass away to other names.
Little did Ralph know that he was passing what once
had belonged to his ancestors, and how that fair
manor had come down, through three successive ladies,
from the Fitz Stuar to the Lisles, and thence, in the
female line, to the Bremshotts, whose daughters again
would share it with the Dudleys and the Pakenhams.
He breathed his horse up the steep slope that led
past Chillerton Down, and as he descended on the
further side, he first felt how damp was the night air,
and noticed how difficult it was to find his way.
Mindful, however, of his lord's injunction to make
all the speed he could, he urged his horse to a reckless
pace, and it was not until he had ridden for another
half-hour that he began to be anxious as to his
whereabouts.  The air seemed much keener than it
had been, and there was a salt freshness in it, that
ought to have told him he must be near the sea.
Could he have mistaken his way?  There was no
building he could see anywhere, and the track had
entirely ceased.  Ralph got off his horse to examine
the ground.  He was on rough, coarse grass, with
large stones cropping up here and there.  This might
be the slope of St Catherine's down, or it might be
anywhere.  Ralph mounted his horse again.  The mist
was dense, there was no star or light to be seen in
any direction, nor was there any sound of human life.
But there was a sound--what was it?  Ralph could
hear a dull roar, and seething, swishing sound.  He
could not tell what it was.  He had never lived by
the sea, or he would have known that it was the
swell of the Channel rolling on the shore, and
breaking in surf among the rocks of that dangerous coast.
He spurred on his horse once more.  But after a few
strides the horse refused to go further, and backed
and reared, as he had never done before.  In vain
Ralph struck his spurs into his flanks, and urged him
or by word and rein.  The horse only reared and
snorted the more, and swung round on his hind legs,
plunging in utterly uncontrolled rebellion.

Ralph could not make it out.  Never since the
animal had been given to him had he known him to be
so unmanageable.  Seeing how useless it was to press
the horse any further, he ceased to try to subdue him
to his will, trusting to get the mastery when he had
quieted down.

As the horse stood still, his flanks quivering with
excitement, Ralph noticed a smell of smoke: his
senses had become keener since he had lost his way.

This smell of smoke caused him to feel more hopeful;
where there was smoke there must be a fire, and
probably a human habitation.  He turned his head
round to ascertain where the smell came from, and, as
he sniffed the air in various directions, he came to
the conclusion that it must be in front of him.

Once more he urged his horse forward, but the
animal was as determined as ever not to go that way.

"What can it be?" thought Ralph, who was beginning
to feel a little superstitious, as the tales of
goblins and spirits came back to his mind, suggested
by the unaccountable noise, the mysterious smoke,
and, above all, the remarkable stubbornness of his
horse, usually so docile and manageable.

For the third time he stuck his spurs against his
horse's sides, encouraging him by his voice at the
same time, but with the same result--not one step
forward would the animal take.

"Young man, didst thou never hear of Balaam?"
said a deep voice, proceeding, apparently, directly
from under the horse's head, and in another moment
a tall black figure rose out of the darkness, so close
as almost to touch Ralph, who could not restrain a
shudder of supernatural dread at the suddenness of
the strange appearance.





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.. _`HOW THE COCKEREL GOT A FALL`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.


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   HOW THE COCKEREL GOT A FALL.

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"What art thou?" stammered Ralph, as soon
as he had recovered from his surprise.
"What dost thou mean by thy talk of Balaam?"

"Look, boy, and thou wilt see," answered the dark
figure, which every second was becoming more clearly
defined in the gloom.

Without Ralph having noticed it, the mist had
been growing lighter for the last quarter of an hour.
The atmosphere, while still densely thick, was yet
paler and more luminous, and immediate objects
were more easily distinguished.

Hardly had the strange figure spoken the words,
than the vapour which enveloped them parted, and
a wonderful sight presented itself to the eyes of the
awe-struck boy.

Was it all a dream? or was he really standing, or
floating in mid air?  He could hardly repress a
shudder of unutterable awe, so strange was the
sudden change from the blackness of night to the
brilliantly weird scene before him.

He was standing on the very verge of a fearful
precipice, so close that he could peer over from the
saddle down, down, far down to a rocky shore below,
where the sea, in seething surf, was beating and
grinding and gnawing at the black rocks scattered in
wildest confusion on the strand.  At his side was a
vast, yawning black chasm impossible for him to
fathom, shrouded as it was in the deep shadow of the
bold headland beyond.  Tophet itself could hardly
be blacker or more fearful looking.  The grim gloom
of this awful abyss, at the very edge of which he was
standing, made the flesh creep on his bones.  One
step more, and he would have plunged he knew not
whither.  Above this terrible place the clinging mist
still veiled the scene.  But Ralph could see that the
hills and cliffs went soaring up till lost in obscurity.

Right from the feet of the dazed boy, but far, far
down, a broad path of dancing light stretched away
and away till a grey and silver cloud under the clear
full moon hid it in its soft embrace, as it lay
brooding over the sea.

How lovely was the dancing sea, how glorious
the moon, how wondrous the violet of the deep
sky of night.  Ralph had never seen anything like it,
and yet how near to awful death had he been.

The ghostly mist curled up over the edge of the
cliff, the strange white shapes went silently floating
by like ghosts of the shipwrecked dead, or a still
army of spirits flying inland to visit their midnight
homes.  Silently as the strange scene had opened, so
stilly and impalpably it faded away.  In another
moment all was gone, and the boy and the dark
figure were alone in the thick fog, nothing visible of
all that wondrous scene but themselves and the few
feet of turf on which they stood.  Ralph could hardly
believe it was reality.  Surely it must be all a dream.

"Now, my young master, believest thou?  Dost
understand where thou art?"

"Nay, not I; it seemeth to me I dream."

"Ay, marry, that wouldest thou soon, if indeed
men do dream in that sleep which they call death,"
said the deep voice bitterly.

Ralph could not make out this dark figure.  He
had not looked at it during the fitful light which
opened up that strange sight only to disappear in
greater obscurity than before.  He now tried to
examine the form of him who uttered such
enigmatical remarks in so well-cultured a voice.

He saw a tall figure, strong and well made, with
a hood over its head, such as were worn by the
courtiers of ages long gone by, and which Ralph had
seen depicted in tapestry and illuminations of King
Edward the Third's time.  A tight-fitting tunic
strapped at the waist by a belt, from which gleamed
the hilt of a dagger, and the head of a small axe,
showed he was both active and well-armed.  But
Ralph could see nothing of the man's face, or make
out whether his clothes were of those of gentle birth
or of the common stuff worn by the country men
and labourers.

"Well, my master, and how long may it please you
to stay here, and what may be your business?"

Ralph did not like the tone of bantering superiority
the other assumed; he answered:--

"Marry, good fellow, what is that to thee?  An
thou canst tell me where I am, and whither to go to
St Catherine's down, that is all I want of thee."

"So thou wouldest go to St Catherine's down, wouldest
thou?  And what may be your business there?"

"Thou art parlous curious, good knave," said
Ralph haughtily.  "I pray you ask me no questions,
but tell me what I wish to know."

"Body o' me, this is a fine springald," said the
other.  "But before I tell thee what thou wouldest
know, thou must tell me what I would know."

"And what is that?"

"What is thy business at this hour from the Captain
of the Wight with the hermit of St Catherine's?"

"That shalt thou never know!" cried Ralph hotly.

"Then thou mayest grope here in the darkness
until thy carcase becometh a prey to the sea-mews, or a
feast for the crabs on yonder beach."

"Base churl! thou deservedst chastisement for
thine insolence!" cried Ralph, whose temper was
becoming provoked.  "But I will e'en do without thy
niggard help."  And Ralph got off his horse, and
prepared to grope his way to where the smell of
smoke still met his nostrils.

"Nay, Sir Page, thou goest not thus," said the man,
stepping in front of him, and at the same time putting
his finger to his mouth he gave a prolonged whistle
like the shrill scream of a sea-bird.

Ralph laid his hand on his sword, seeing there
was evidently mischief intended.  But before he
could draw it, his wrist was held as in a vice, and
in a second his other arm was grasped, and with
a quick trip of the foot, he found himself prostrate on
the grass, the man kneeling on him, and holding him
immovable.

"Struggle not, young master, or thou wilt suffer.
Thou art powerless to do aught, so better lie still."

But Ralph was furious.  With the rage of mortified
pride--for he had never been mastered before--he
struggled, kicked, and writhed, and even tried to bite
the hands that held him with a grasp of iron.  He
had never felt such power in human hands before.

"Marry, 'tis a fierce youth and a strong," muttered
the man.  "I shall have to do him a mischief, an they
come not soon.  Ah! would you?" he said, as Ralph's
hand wriggled to get at his poignard, and in a trice
the arm was wrenched out stiff and straight, and
kept pinioned to the ground.  Never had Ralph believed
man could be so strong.  But, still unconquered,
the boy struggled with his legs, and raised himself off
the ground with his heels.  By a violent uplifting of
his knees, he hit his captor a fierce blow in the
back, causing him to fall forward on his face.  With
a desperate heave the boy pursued his advantage, and
in another moment would have upset his adversary,
when he felt his legs caught and pulled roughly
down, once more he was utterly powerless.

"Now, stripling," said his first assailant, still holding
his arms stretched out, but getting off the boy's chest,
where he had been crushing the breath out of his
body, "I told you it would be all for naught your
wrestling like that.  Will you tell me what you have
come here for?"

"Never," said Ralph resolutely.

"Then, Bill," said his captor, "we shall even have
to search him."

Before Ralph knew what was happening, he felt his
arms held by another man, while the first speaker
carefully searched his pockets.

"There's naught here," he said, in a disappointed
tone, as he turned out the contents of Ralph's small
clothes and tunic, and examined the miscellaneous
collection of utterly useless articles which boys, from
the earliest days down to the present, have set their
hearts on forming, to the detriment of their pockets,
the aggravation of their female relatives, and the
marring of their own figure.

"Nay, but there is," said the man who held his legs;
"look'ee there, there's summat whoite i' the grass."

"Marry, so there is!" and the first speaker picked
up the missive of the Captain of the Wight and
turned it over.

"You base villains," said Ralph, "an you touch
that, you will repent it!"

A loud laugh greeted this remark; and the first
speaker, rising, held the paper up to see if he could
make anything out of it.

"I can't make it out," he said.  "I must e'en take
it to the light."

"And what are we to do wi' the lad while you be
gone?  Shall us knife un and pitch un over to cliff?"

"Body o' me, no!  Do him no harm; hold him till
I come back."

So saying, the first speaker disappeared from
Ralph's line of sight.

The moon had again come out, and as Ralph lay
on his back, he could just manage, by wriggling his
head, to look on each side of him.  He could see that
the men who held him were rough figures, clad in
coarse hairy clothes, possibly skins of animals.  The
moonlight fell on their hair and beards, giving them
a wild and ferocious appearance; and long knives,
whose hilts stuck out of their belts, gleamed in the
silver light.  Who were they, and what could they
mean by attacking him?  and, above all, how could
they dare, in so small an island, to defy so powerful an
authority as that of the Captain of the Wight?  As
he lay on his back, Ralph caught sight of a light;
at first he took it for a star, but it flickered and flared
in so strange a way, that he soon knew it could
not be.

Surely it must be a fire, and, if so, there must be
men near.  Ralph felt a hope of aid; he tried to shout
aloud, but the first sound he uttered caused the man
who was holding his arms to clap his hand over his
mouth, and effectually to stop all further cries.  In
vain Ralph seized his arm with his disengaged hand.
The other man, who was tired of holding his legs, had
seated himself upon them; his arms were therefore
free.  He leant forward, and grasped Ralph's hand,
and roughly made him let go his grip of his companion.

"Best give it up, young 'un," he said gruffly, as he
held the arm in no gentle hold.  "There's naught can
hear thee save the Gaffer and the sea mews."

"Then what's that light?" asked Ralph, as the man
relaxed the pressure on his mouth.

"'Tis the light on St Catherine, and 'tis a good
mile or more away."

"Then where am I?"

"Where are you?  Why, on the ground, to be
sure," laughed the man.

Ralph's anger rose, but it was utterly useless, he
could do nothing.  After lying still for another
minute or more, one of the men said,--

"The Gaffer is a long while; maybe he can't spell
out them words."

"Surely he's larnt his chriss-cross row long ago,"
said the other derisively.

"Ay, right enough, mate, but them letters may be
t'other sort."

"Well, and if they be, ain't he got Mistress
Magdalen to read it for him?"

"Hold your tongue, you lubber; here he comes."

Ralph could just manage to see the head of his
captor rising out of the mist, and from the distinctness
with which he saw his figure develop, he knew the edge
of the cliff must be very near, as indeed he had
already seen.

"Master Page, here's thy missive; there's naught in
it that concerneth me, so thou mayest e'en take it to
the Hermit of St Catherine's; but when thou returnest
to the Castle, give this message to thy lord; thou
needest not to say who gave it thee--he will ask no
questions."

Ralph now felt his captors relax their hold, in
another second he was free.  He rose to his feet, the
men had already disappeared.  He looked round;
there was nothing to be seen of any living being;
only his horse was browsing tranquilly a few paces
off, and two white bits of parchment lay on the grass.

Picking these up, he went to the edge of the cliff.
The sea was restlessly seething and surging among
the rocks, each ripple and wave rolling like molten
silver to the iron-bound coast.  Every crevice and
rock stood out sharp and clear in the brilliant
moonlight, only marking in blacker contrast the hideous
gloom of the yawning chasm at his side.  He could
see no path, yet the men must have gone down that
way, or else he would have seen them had they
ventured to clamber down the precipice in front.  He
stood up and looked round--the light had disappeared.
Had they told him the truth about that light?  Was it
the Hermitage of St Catherine's?  But there was none
to ask, and he felt as bewildered as ever, nay, more so,
for he had utterly lost his bearings.

And then he thought of his lord's command, and
of the urgency of the matter.  What should he
do?  With the recklessness of despair, he bawled
aloud,--

"You varlets, which way am I to go to get to St
Catherine's?"  But only the echo from the blackness
beyond answered mockingly "Catherine" in quivering
note, and the waves surged ceaselessly below.  He cried
again,--"You caitiffs, you, why don't you answer?"
and the echo laughed back "answer," but none other
answer came.  "'Tis little use," he muttered, in sullen
bitterness of spirit; "but I will yet find out where that
smoke came from."  He looked at his horse, how should
he tether him?  He saw beyond, and nearer the head
of the chasm, a few bushes growing.  Carefully he led
his horse along the edge of the abyss, marvelling how
he had escaped so awful a death, and regretfully
thinking how he had chidden his noble horse, whose
sensible instinct had saved both their lives.

When he reached the bushes, he saw that he was on
the brink of a deep gully, but the ground was all
broken and boggy, and covered with closely-growing
bush, bramble, and scrub.  The mist was gathering
up afresh.  Great banks of vapour were scudding
across the moon, and flitting up the black chasm,
suddenly appearing in the moonlight out of the
darkness below, like steam out of a cauldron.

While he was debating what to do, he was startled
by a gentle voice almost at his elbow.  Turning
quickly round, he saw a graceful figure standing
on the edge of the gully, looking like black marble
against the broad path of silver glory that stretched
across the sea behind it.

"Fair sir, whither wouldst thou go?" said the voice.

"If thou art of real flesh and blood, gentle damoiselle,
I would thank thee to tell me which is my way to St
Catherine's Hermitage."

"And thou wouldst not thank me if I were not real
flesh and blood?"

"Ay, marry would I, an' thou wert Sathanas himself!"
cried the youth impatiently, "if only I could
escape from this quagmire of a hole."

"Thou art not over-courteous, Sir Page," said the
gentle voice.

"Certes, fair damsel, I crave thy pardon, but I am
much belated, and have been sorely bested.  I cry your
mercy.  But tell me, an thou canst, how I can find
the Hermit of St Catherine's?"

"Right easily, fair sir.  Seest thou yonder hill to
thy right?"

"The fire I saw was to the left, I'll wager my
falcon," said Ralph; then he added aloud, "Marry,
do I, fair damsel."

"Then ride straight up that hill--there is naught
save a few rough stones to hinder thee; only walk
thy horse carefully till thou gettest upon hard ground,
as 'tis all quick about here.  Nay, I will show thee,"
added the figure quickly; "'tis but a poor return for
thy kindness to us."

"And when did I show kindness to thee, gentle
damsel?" said Ralph, in astonishment.

"Thou quickly forgettest thy good deeds, I see,"
said the girl.  "'Tis a good sign of one gently
nurtured."

"But when saw I thee before?"

"I did not say thou hadst seen me before!"

"Marry, fair damsel, thou speakest in riddles.  I did
thee a kindness, and yet did not see thee!  A-read
me the riddle?"

"Nay, 'tis best to forget the kindnesses you do, so
long as they to whom they are done keep them in
mind.  There, now, thou art on safe ground.  Ride
boldly up the hill.  At the summit thou wilt see the
beacon light.  Fare-thee-well."

"But, damsel, wilt thou not tell me thy name?
Who are those caitiffs who wrought me such wrong?
Where dwellest thou?  How camest thou here?"

"And then men call us poor women curious and
prying," laughed the girl.  "Good-night, gentle sir,
mayest thou prosper, and have a pleasant journey;"
and before Ralph realised she was gone, she had
disappeared down the head of the gully.

"Well, 'tis little use following her," thought Ralph;
"my business is up there.  I marvel whether she told
me truth; but I shall soon see."

He mounted his horse, and pursued his way as fast as
he could, consistently with the steepness of the ascent.

So steep was the hill in some places, that he
dismounted once more, and led his horse up.  He had no
idea the hill was so high or so difficult to climb, from
the view he had had of it below, but at length he found
the steep incline becoming rounder and more level.
Mounting again, he set spurs to his horse, and galloped
over the smooth, close-cropped, wind-shorn grass.

After riding a few hundred yards, he saw a bright
glow before him, and in another minute he was
trotting up to a low building with a small octagonal
tower, on the top of which was a cresset holding a
mass of flaming tow and faggots, which cast a lurid
glare all over the summit of the lofty down.  It was
St Catherine's Chapel and Hermitage.

As Ralph rode up, the figure of a man in a monk's
dress emerged in the tower, and attended to the fire.

"Art thou the Hermit of St Catherine?" called out
Ralph.

The monk turned round.

"Who is it that calls?"

"One of the Captain of the Wight's pages, who has
come with a missive for thee."

"Tarry, my son, till I come down," said the Hermit.

The figure then disappeared, and shortly afterwards
a low door at the base of the tower opened, and the
Hermit came out, holding a lantern in his hand.
He carefully scrutinised Ralph without saying
anything, and took the paper the page handed to him.

After reading it attentively, he said,--

"Tell my lord there hath been no strange sail seen
to-day, but as it is parlous thick to-night, and was so
the greater part of the afternoon, a vessel might have
passed without my seeing.  Tell his lordship I will be
sure to keep a trusty look-out."

"Is that all, holy father?"

"Yes, my son; get thee back as soon as may be, for
it behoveth him to take measures in case a schallop
hath gotten past unperceived."

Ralph turned his horse's head; the mist was now
far down below, and dispersing before it spread inland.
His road lay clear before him.  Clapping spurs to his
horse, he galloped off, and in the course of another
hour was hallooing to the guard at the outer gate of
the Castle to open and let him in.  In a few minutes
more he had dismounted at the Captain's apartments,
given his horse to Humphrey, who was sitting up for
him, and in another second was ushered into the
presence of the Captain of the Wight.





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.. _`HOW THE COCKEREL LEARNT HARDIHOOD`:

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   CHAPTER IX.


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   HOW THE COCKEREL LEARNT HARDIHOOD.

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When Ralph pushed aside the heavy curtain
which hung inside the ill-fitting but massive
oak door, he was for a moment dazed by the brilliant
light within the room.

The chambers of the more luxurious nobles were
at this time fitted up with much profusion of rich
draperies, gorgeous tapestries, and splendidly carved
and gilded furniture.  Lord Woodville inherited and
shared all the lavish tastes of his mother and his
family.  His brother, the ill-fated Lord Scales, had
been the patron of Caxton, having himself translated
and composed some of the earliest works published
by the Father of Printing, and the Captain of the
Wight upheld the traditions of his house.

Seated before an elaborately-carved desk, lighted
by long wax candles standing in exquisitely-designed
brass candlesticks, whose bold bosses and delicate
spiral work reflected the light in countless sparkles
and scintillations, sat the Lord Woodville, his
handsome face in conspicuous distinctness with the light
shining full upon it, while behind hung a gorgeous
tapestry from the looms of Flanders, which had
belonged to his mother, Jacquetta of Luxemburg.  He
was clad in a close-fitting short tunic of black
stamped velvet, made very full across the chest and
shoulders, and drawn in with narrowing pleats at the
waist, where it was confined by a magnificent belt
of scarlet Cordovan leather, richly studded with gold
and jewelled mountings.  A finely-chased silver-hilted
poignard hung at his right side, and his shapely legs
were set off to fullest advantage by his tight-fitting
hose, which, after the fashion of the time, were
parti-coloured, of light blue and white in alternate pieces.
Long and fanciful scarlet Cordovan slippers encased
his feet, and a rich purple mantle, lined with the fur of
the silver fox, hung over the back of his chair.  One
elegantly-formed hand rested on the desk, where a
few characters had been inscribed on a sheet of paper
before him, while the other arm hung negligently over
the back of his chair.  There was a dreamy, far-away
look in his eyes, and no one could have realised in that
slightly effeminate figure, and almost womanish face,
with its sensitive mouth and finely-chiselled nose and
broad brow, round which the long hair fell in waving
masses, the warrior who had fought in nearly all
the bloodiest battles of those fierce civil wars, and had
borne himself in ranged field or tented lists "righte
hardilie, valyentlie, and of full lusty prowess."  For
the conflict on the battle-field was then no child's play
as regards the noble, to whom quarter in those bloody
civil wars was rarely or never given.

It was probably the refined tastes of the Woodvilles,
while rendering them such favourites with the
luxurious Edward IV. and the ladies of his court, which
caused the ruder barons of that rough age to hate
them so bitterly.  The taunt flung in the face of Lord
Rivers and his son by Warwick, when he was brought
before him a prisoner at Calais, showed the malignity
of hate and contempt the nobles felt for the family,
a hatred arising, no doubt, from jealousy at the
Woodvilles' sudden rise to distinction, but aggravated by a
contempt for their accomplishments, which were
considered totally inconsistent with the stern realities of
life.  How was it possible that a hardy knight and
well-seasoned man-at-arms could find time to paint,
write, or even read?  Such occupations were for
jongleurs or monks, not belted knights and stout barons.

As Ralph dropped the curtain behind him, the Captain
of the Wight rose from his chair, the dreamy look
of abstraction giving place to the alertness of real life.

"Well, Master Lisle, thou hast been a dullard on
the way; what hath made thee so late?"

"There was a thick mist abroad, my lord."

"Oh, and thou lost thy way?  Like enough.  These
sea fogs are sudden in their uprising.  But thou gavest
my missive to the Hermit?"

"Yea, my lord, and he bid me say that he had seen
no sail, but that, as the mist had overspread the land
and sea the latter part of the day, it were very possible
for a schallop to have gotten past unnoticed."

"Yea, forsooth, he sayeth well," said the Captain
thoughtfully; then he added, "There was no other
message?"

"None my lord, save--" and Ralph hesitated, for he
did not like to tell of his mishaps, and as he thought
of the strange adventure on the wild cliff, in the
brilliant light of that luxurious room, he could scarcely
believe it was not a dream.  The utter contrast
between the present moment, the elegant surroundings,
the absolute security of that splendid castle, with
all its guards, walls, men-at-arms, bastions, archers,
and turrets, and the wild weirdness of that solitary
wrestle on the verge of the black precipice, in the cold
light of the moon, and the ghostly vapour, seemed too
impossible.  Surely he must have dreamt it.

"Save what, my child?" said Lord Woodville.

"Save that I lost my way, and--" and again he
hesitated.

"Well, my page, and what?"

"And I was set on by a base caitiff."

"Ay, marry--who has dared to lay hands on one
of my pages?"

"That I know not, my lord," and then Ralph
narrated the adventure as best he could.

Lord Woodville listened to the end, his countenance
expressing no feeling until Ralph came to the
part where the man bid him take a note to the Captain
of the Wight.  He then looked up gravely, and said,

"Where is it, my child?"

Ralph fumbled in his pocket; he searched everywhere--he
could not find it.  Seeing his nervousness,
the Lord Woodville said, smiling,--

"Nay, fair page, take it quietly; thou mayest have
overlooked it.  Search each of thy pockets one by
one, and so we shall arrive at a just conclusion."

Ralph did as he was told, and displayed but few
things to the amused eyes of Lord Woodville, for he
had not troubled to replace the rubbish which the man
had left upon the grass when he turned out his
pockets.  When all had been gone through, there was
nothing found.

"My lord," said Ralph, abashed, "I must have
dropped it when I delivered thy missive to the
Hermit of St Catherine's."

"Like enough, my page; but thou shouldest be
more careful.  An thou didst, I shall get it in
the morning; or thou canst ride in search of it.
But thou art sure thou hast not been dreaming?"
added Lord Woodville, with a smile.

"Nay, my lord, that I will warrant, for thou mayest
see the stain of the grass and the earth on my surcoat
and hose."

"Well that is somewhat, certes, but 'tis a quaint
tale.  Who could they be who would attack thee, do
thee no harm, take no gold from thee, or strip thee of
thy rich poignard and gaudy dress?  For I see they
have left thee thy purse and gold pieces."

"Nay, my lord, I know not; but I can show thee
the place to-morrow, an thou wilt ride thither."

"What was the man like who captured you?  Didst
thou see his face?"

"Nay, my lord, for he ever came between me and
the moon; but he was of marvellous strength, and of a
wondrous bigness; and he spoke like one in authority,
and of gentle birth and breeding."

"Well, 'tis a strange adventure, in sooth, and we
will take thought for it to-morrow.  Perchance thou
mayest find the missive in thy saddle housings, or in
thy dress, as thou retirest to sleep.  But it groweth
late; get thee now to thy rest.  I shall need thee
to-morrow."

So saying, Lord Woodville nodded kindly to the
boy, as a sign for him to retire, and Ralph left the
room, glad enough to have escaped so easily,
marvelling more than ever whether what had happened
had really been a dream.

Meanwhile the Captain of the Wight stood musing
before his fire, for there was now need for a fire, since
the season was drawing on, and it was near the end
of September, while the thick stone walls of the
strong building were damp and cold.

Presently he went to his desk, pressed a spring,
and out of a drawer at the side he took a little scented
leathern case.  Opening this, he took out two very
faded flowers, a long lock of wavy soft brown hair,
and a golden heart.  He gazed at the silent relics, his
lips moved, and he crossed himself devoutly.  He
then, after pressing them to his lips, put them back
in the case, shut the case up, and replaced it in the
drawer, which he carefully fastened again.

This done, with a heavy sigh he stepped across to a
*prie dieu*, and devoutly kneeling before a richly-carved
crucifix, he remained absorbed in prayer.  When he
rose up, his face looked white and haggard.  Before
retiring to rest, he drew aside the curtain over his
door, opened it, and called to the archer on guard to
pass the word to the man who relieved him, to usher,
without question, any monk who should come to him
in the morning.

When Ralph awoke next morning, the events of the
previous night seemed more than ever like a dream.
The commonplace realities of everyday life, the bright
morning sun, the boyish chaff of his companions, and
the decisive tone of Tom o' Kingston as he put them
through their exercises, seemed so utterly out of
keeping with the romantic adventure of the night before.

Dicky Cheke seemed somewhat crestfallen this
morning, and he and Maurice Woodville had each a
rather swollen cheek and lip, while Willie Newenhall
was decidedly puffy and red about the eye.

Even Bowerman showed signs of the manful handling
given him by Ralph, who had almost forgotten
the scuffle, in the greater excitement that had followed.

"I' faith, Ralph," said Dicky Cheke, "there'll be war
anon, and Bowerman shall grin.  What do you think?
After you had gone, and the Captain had gotten well
away, that rogue 'Pig's Eyes' got Bowerman to
attack us; but we gave them enough work before
we gave in, and that's why his eye's so wadged up,
and Bowerman's nose looks so red about the bridge."

"Now, Master Cheke," called out Tom o' Kingston,
"are you going to give over gossiping?  I hear there's
talk of a tilt toward, and that Sir John thinks two of you
young men can break a lance in it.  Now I'd be loth
you bore yourselves boorishly, so please to give heed
to all I've to say to you.  Master Bowerman, you look
but sadly this morning; what's come to your nose?"

"Never mind my nose, Tom," said that youth
sulkily.  "It's no business of yours if my nose is well
or amiss.  Let me have a run at you with the lance;
I want to practise against a live man."

"Not this morning, Master Bowerman; you've
enough to do to hit the Saracen fairly.  Now are you
ready.  Go!"

The boys were all mounted on their hackneys
horses that formed part of the stud of the castle
garrison, and which were trained for the work.  Each
boy carried a lance about thirteen feet long, and they
were this morning going to tilt at a large and roughly-made
figure of a Saracen, who held a shield in one
arm, and a loose club in the other.  The figure, when
hit on the shield, spun round, and, unless the performer
were quick in his movements, caught its assailant a
more or less violent blow in the back, depending upon
the force with which the shield was hit.

At the word of command of Tom o' Kingston,
Bowerman dug his heels into his horse's side and
rode at the figure.  He hit the shield fairly, and
galloped past untouched, raising his lance as he
trotted round.

"That's well done, but give him a harder buffet next
time.  Now, Master Newenhall!" cried the instructor.

Willie Newenhall was but half awake.  He was
yawning desperately when he received the order to go.
He had scarcely fastened up his clothes, and he looked
a sodden mass of sleepy stupidity.  His half-washed
face, squat nose, and little eyes, which were now
smaller than ever, owing to the events of the night
before, did not look prepossessing, and not the
uttermost vagaries of the most vivid imagination would
have thought that the owner of that countenance and
that appearance fancied himself to be a dangerous
lady-killer, a cause of disquiet alike to the anxious
husband as well as the fond father.  But the nights
of fancy are proverbially wild, and had anybody
suggested to Willie Newenhall that he was anything else
than a very handsome, irresistible youth, he would
have regarded that person with the pitying scorn
justly due to the envious and the blighted.  Sleepy,
and unfinished in the matter of his toilette--for it was
seven o'clock in the morning, and Willie dearly loved
his bed--he heard the order to put his horse in motion
at the quintain.  With another prolonged yawn he
shook his horse's reins, and trotted lazily towards the
post.  It so happened that he had not fastened up
his tunic properly.  As the pace of the horse increased,
and he prepared to level his spear to hit the shield,
the tunic flew open, and got in the way of his arms.
Forgetting, or not noticing, how near he was to the
quintain, he moved his arm up to clear the dress,
thus bringing the lance across his body, and before he
had time to recover his position, the long spear struck
athwart the quintain, and got askew between the
shield and the wooden post on which it revolved,
with the effect of its becoming jammed and immovable.
As Willie's horse was well trained, and had
increased his speed on nearing the quintain, his rider
was swept out of his saddle, and over the crupper,
falling to the ground like a sack of flour.

The onlookers greeted this mishap with a roar of
laughter, and their instructor, with whom Willie
Newenhall was no favourite, scoffingly bid him pick
himself up, and "not lie there like a trussed pullet."

Ruefully the sleepy page, now rudely awakened, got
up, and came limping back.

"Pick up thy lance, stupid, and go after thy nag.
Beshrew me, but an I were the Captain, I'd as lief
have a turnip for a page as thee.  For you both grow,
and that's all; saving that a turnip is good to eat,
which is more than can be said o' thee."  Then
turning to Ralph, Tom o' Kingston said, "Now, Master
Lisle, do thou show them how to do the matter."

Ralph dearly loved these exercises, and had become
an apt pupil.  Sticking spurs to his horse, he cantered
eagerly forward.  As he neared the post, with knees
and voice he encouraged his horse, and with loose
reins and gathering speed he struck the quintain a
vigorous blow; then, raising his lance aloft, galloped
on, untouched by the swiftly-revolving club.

"By my faith, 'twas well done, young master!
You'll make the best lance of them all.  But, when
all's said and done, that's not much praise neither."

"You're a bit grumpy this morning--Tom," said
Dicky Cheke.  "What's gone wrong?  Has Polly
Bremeskate been unkind to thee?"

"Now, Master Cheke, mind your work, and let
me have none of your sauce," said Tom o' Kingston,
who was supposed to cherish a fatal passion for this
very buxom and florid spinster, who was the inheritor
of certain lands and tenements sufficient to be
a powerful attraction, over and above her other
charms, to the yeomen of the island.  Her suitors
therefore were numerous, and she gave herself airs of
importance becoming in one so happily placed.

Dicky and Maurice went through the performance
very well, and after the exercise had been repeated
several times, the little group was joined by the
Breton knight and Sir John Trenchard.

The arrival of these important spectators caused the
performers to try their best, and even the stolid Willie
was roused into something like emulation.

"How do they tackle to their work, Master Tom?"
asked Sir John.

"There's naught amiss, Sir John, with Master
Bowerman and Lisle; they'll bear themselves well
enough--leastways the last-named gentleman will;
and so, for their size, will the other two young masters.
But as for Master Newenhall, you'd as well mount
Betty the scullery wench on Jenny the donkey,
and give her a broomstick, as let him ride among
press of knights."

"Go in, boys, and don your breastpieces, brassarts,
gauntlets, and burgonets, and get your targets.
This worshipful knight and I would see how you can
bear yourselves in a tilt."

It was delightful news to all the pages, except
Willie Newenhall, who in his heart detested the whole
thing, and would much rather have sat at the window
where Lady Trenchard's maids were looking at the
sports, than have been down there, jeered at by the
others, and with a strong probability of receiving
hard knocks.  If only he could gossip, he was happy.
He could scarcely open his mouth among men, but
with a garrulous woman--if only she were married, or
beyond the chance of having designs upon himself--he
was quite at home, and would discuss by the hour the
latest fashion in 'cotes hardies,' or 'furbelows,' or any
other of the mysteries usually never spoken of by men,
or, if referred to at all, mentioned with bated breath,
as though conscious of venturing on unknown ground,
and with the usual result of bringing ridicule upon
themselves, by the utter ignorance they displayed.
But not so with Willie.  He was as much at home
when discussing women's dress or idle gossip and
scandal, as his companions were at handling the lance
or throwing the bar.

In a few minutes more the pages all re-appeared,
armed entirely from the waist upwards in polished
steel their faces looking bright and boyish under
their raised visors, with their shields on their left arms.
At the word 'Mount,' they vaulted into the saddle, or
attempted to do so, for although they were practised
every day at this exercise, yet it was a difficult matter
to accomplish in armour.  Bowerman and Ralph,
owing to the advantage of height, were able to do it
gracefully enough, but poor Dicky ignominiously
failed, while Maurice managed to scramble up with
loss of dignity, but ultimate success.  Willie had also
failed, and received a sharp rebuke from Sir John
Trenchard.  When at last, by dint of great struggles,
the two unfortunates had got on their horses, they
were ranged in a line, sitting motionless with lance
erect and visor raised.

The scene was pretty.  The morning drill took place
in the castle yard properly so called; the place of
arms outside the walls, on the east of the castle, not
being used for the lesser exercises.  The five martial
figures of the youths, their fresh boyish faces,
contrasting with their warlike panoply, the graceful
figure of the Breton knight, in his close-fitting tunic
and picturesque dress, set off to advantage by the
grizzled head and weather-beaten appearance of Sir
John Trenchard, formed a becoming contrast to the
burly form and soldierly bearing of the esquire, sitting
his horse to the right of the little squad, and
completing the group on the yellow gravel of the yard.
Behind all, the towering keep, with its base hidden by
thick brushwood, carefully trimmed and topped, stood
up dark and grim against the eastern sky.  To the south
east, Mountjoy's Tower, and the long line of wall
between, cast their deep shadows over the barracks and
store-houses below; while opposite, in the bright
sunlight, was the old chapel of St Nicholas, the chaplain's
room, guard-room, and the noble towers of the main
gateway.  The Captain's apartments, on the north,
commanded a view on three sides into the yard, and
the boys were made more eager than ever to do well,
by seeing the Captain of the Wight standing in the
oriel window, looking down upon them.

About the quadrangle were grouped, some in shadow
some in bright sunlight, the picturesque figures of the
garrison of the castle who were off duty, while the
flitting shadows on the parapet of the eastern walls
showed where the sentries were pacing to and fro on
their beat.

Above the keep floated the standard of England,
and from the main tower the banner of the Captain
of the Wight flung its blazon in the breeze.





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.. _`HOW THE COCKEREL VAUNTED HIMSELF`:

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   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE COCKEREL VAUNTED HIMSELF.

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"Let the varlets tilt according to size, Master
Tom," said Sir John Trenchard.  "Master
Bowerman, do you and Master Newenhall begin: close
your visors."

This was bad news for Willie.  As he turned his
horse's head to take up his place, that disconsolate
youth murmured through the bars of his closed
visor,--

"Bowerman, I say, there's little need to tilt in
earnest.  I won't hit you hard, if you'll only rap on
my breastpiece lightly."

But Bowerman only laughed.  He was delighted
to have so easy an adversary.

"Marry, 'Pig's Eyes,'" he replied, "do thy best,
there's the Captain looking on."

With a deep sigh of woe-begone anticipation, poor
Willie, whose bones still ached from his last fall,
wheeled his horse round at the word of command,
and sat facing Bowerman.

"At the word 'Ready,'" said Tom o' Kingston,
in a dry, monotonous voice, "you will lay your spears
in rest, holding the point on a level with your own
eye, and the hand pressed well into the side, keeping
the guard well up to the rest.  At the word 'Go,' you
will clap spurs to your horses, and ride straight for
each other."

There was a pause for the combatants to settle
themselves well in their saddles, look to any part of
their armour that might be amiss, and generally pull
themselves together.

"Ready!" called out the esquire.

Down came the lances in a graceful sweep, and
the two pages sat waiting for the next word.

"Go!" shouted the instructor, and the previously
motionless figures dug their spurs into their horses,
and rode at each other.

The two lances struck almost at the same moment,
but Bowerman adroitly caught Newenhall's lance on
his polished shield, and thus caused it to glance over
his left shoulder.  His own spear struck his adversary
under the rim of the breastplate, where it turned over
to protect the gorget.  Sliding along the smooth
surface of the steel, it held under the roundel which
protected the right shoulder, and the miserable Willie
was lifted out of the saddle, and hurled once more
over the crupper to the ground, while Bowerman,
raising his lance aloft, after the proper fashion, trotted
round to his own place again, saluting the Breton
knight and Sir John Trenchard as he rode past.

"Well and manfully done, Sir Page!" cried the
latter warrior.

"*Ma foi! oui! il a fait son devoir en bon soudard*,"
said the sire Alain de Kervignac.

The hapless Newenhall lay still upon the ground;
not that he was really hurt, beyond being considerably
shaken, and bumped about the head; but he wisely
thought if it were seen that he were hurt he might
be sent indoors, and allowed to sit in Lady Trenchard's
room, and be made a fuss of, a state of affairs
he dearly loved.

"Is he hurt, think you?" said Sir John Trenchard.
"I would be loth that he really got a hurt."

"Nay, Sir John," said Tom o' Kingston, winking
at his chief in a knowing fashion, "he'll be all right
anon.  I know the habits of the lad."  Then he called
out, "Master Newenhall, the others are going to
begin; you'd best get out of the way."

But that astute youth determined not to move.
"They'll never be such caitiffs as to ride over me,"
he thought.  However, it looked very much like it,
for without any concern the esquire called out,--

"Now, Master Cheke and Master Woodville, 'tis
your turn.  Lower your beavers."

"You'd best take care, Maurice," said Dicky, as they
rode off.  "I mean to do my best, and I'm sorry for
thee."

"None of thy peppercorn wit, Dicky.  I'll topple
thee out of thy saddle like a pint pot off a brown jack."

And so the two boys took up their positions, waiting
for the word.  It was soon given.  Down came
the lances.

"Go," called the esquire, and the two boys rode at
each other manfully enough.  They were very equally
matched, and struck each other full on their breastplates;
but in Dicky's case the lance of his adversary
glanced off the sharp edge of the convex corslet, and
slipped under his arm, doing him no injury, while
his own lance also glanced aside, and the two
boys were nearly unseated by their horses' impetus.
Had they not both held on tightly by the reins, and
been prevented from going backwards by the high-peaked
saddle, they must have fallen to the ground.
As it was, they remained with their horses stationary,
each spear locked under the other's arm.

"Maurice, I shall do thee a mischief," cried Dicky
Cheke, through his visor.  "Thou hadst best give up,
and fall off thy horse.  I won't hurt thee then."

"Grammercy for thy gentleness, Master Dicky,
but I'll soon have thee down," and the two boys
pushed at each other, with the guards of their spears
pressing against their breastplates.

"Maurice, I say, don't be such an obstinate pig!
I'll give thee all my share of the marchpane of
strawberries when we have it again, if thou wilt only fall
off this once.  I'll promise I'll do it for thee another
time."

"That *is* gammon!  Marry come up, my pipkin!"
said Maurice ironically, and, pushing and wriggling his
lance harder than ever, to the great aggravation of
Dicky Cheke, he almost lifted him out of the saddle.

"Maurice, I shall get mad soon," said Dicky, "and
then I shall hurt thee.  Ah! would'st thou?" and
Dicky, dropping his reins, and gripping the saddle
with his knees, grasped Maurice's lance with his left
hand, and tried to force it back out of his hold.

The two horses were pushing against each other.
Suddenly Maurice grasped Dicky's lance, and at the
same time backing his horse, he pulled that young
gentleman out of the saddle forward, who, however
held on all the time to the lance, and thus broke his
fall.  The moment he was on the ground, he rose to
his feet, holding the spear all the time, and fiercely
tried to push Maurice out of the saddle.  But Sir
John Trenchard called out that all was fairly done,
and that both had done their devoir as right hardy
varlets, but that natheless Woodville had gotten most
honour, for he kept his seat while the other was
dismounted.

"That's as may be," said the unquenchable Dicky,
"albeit, had it been in real lists, I should have driven
thee against the barrier, and so I should have won
the prize."

Willie Newenhall, when he saw that the boys really
were to tilt across the very place where he was lying,
with no more concern for him than if he had been a
log of wood, vowing vengeance on the two youngsters,
rolled out of the way, and got up sulkily enough,
limping back to the place where his well-trained
horse was standing, and appearing in great distress.
But as no one took any notice of him, with a growl of
disgust at their heartlessness, he gave up the game,
and stood watching the others.

"Now, Master Bowerman, an thou art in good wind
again, here's Master Lisle ready for a course with thee."

"Right willing I am," answered Bowerman, who
felt highly elated at the success of his first essay, and
the praises he had received.  In addition to this, he
had long hoped to have an opportunity of effectually
quenching Ralph, to whom he had taken a dislike the
moment he saw him, and which had been increased
by many circumstances since.

The two took up their respective positions and
awaited the word of command.  There was a
certain swagger of easy self-assurance in Bowerman
as he trotted his horse to his post, saluting the
Captain of the Wight, who was standing at his
window.

By this time there was a considerable concourse of
spectators, for it was drawing near chapel time, and
the garrison was assembling to fall in.

Tom o' Kingston glancing at the two figures, who
looked very equally matched, called out "Ready,"
quickly followed by the command to go.

The well-trained horses hardly needed the spur, so
perfectly accustomed were they to the words of
command.  They broke at once into a canter, and with
levelled lances the two combatants met exactly in
the middle of the ground.  Bowerman's lance struck
Ralph full and fair under the gorget, and flew into a
thousand splinters.  The blow was a rude one, and
Ralph staggered under it; but his own lance had
been aimed at his antagonist's visor, and took far
more severe effect than he intended.  The visor was
forced violently up, and a splinter from Bowerman's
own lance, struck him full under the eye at the same
moment, inflicting a severe wound.  The shock of
Ralph's well-aimed blow, together with the pain of the
splinter cut, caused Bowerman to reel in his seat, and
as the spear had caught in the bars of the visor, he
was borne backwards out of the saddle, and hurled to
the ground.

"My faith,'twas well done!" cried Sir John Trenchard,
while all the bystanders raised a shout of congratulation,
for Ralph was already a great favourite
with them all.

But Ralph, directly he saw what had happened,
thought no more of the tilt, and how he ought to have
ridden round and saluted the judges and spectators.
He only saw Bowerman on the ground, bleeding
from the severe wound under the eye, which looked
worse than it really was.  He instantly reined in his
horse, threw down his spear, and leaped to the ground.

"Oh, Bowerman, I am so sorry!" he cried, as he
stooped down to help to raise him.

"Get up, you fool!" answered Bowerman, in furious
wrath.  "Do you think I am a girl, that I want your
whinings and whimperings?  Get away, you viper
you, had my lance not gone all to pieces, you'd have
been lying on your back instead of me.  Tom ought
to have given me a new one.  He should have known
it was sprung in the first course."

So saying, and fiercely wrathful, Bowerman spurned
all offer of assistance from Ralph, and rose from the
ground.  The others had now come forward, seeing
the blood flowing from the wound, and Bowerman was
taken to Lady Trenchard to have the cut attended to.

The bell was now tolling, and the other pages
had no time to doff their armour.  Hastily walking
their horses over to the stables, they hurried into
chapel.

When the service was over they withdrew to their
common room, in the north-west side of the Captain's
apartments, and talked over the events of their first
trial at real tilting in armour, while they ate their
meal.

Newenhall was very sulky.  He complained of
severe pains in his head, and said it was a great shame
he was not allowed to go to the sick-room,--that
Bowerman was no worse than he was, and he was
always treated unfairly.

Dicky and Maurice nearly had their harmony spoilt
by bickering over their contest; and Ralph was very
much distressed at the accident that had happened to
Bowerman, and of which he was the unwilling cause,
while he was still more grieved at the evident
animosity with which Bowerman regarded him.

"I tell thee what, Lisle," said Dicky, who was in
a very rasping mood, "it was lucky for thee that
Bowerman's spear went all to pieces, or he would
have had thee out of the saddle as roughly as he
knocked over 'Pig's Eyes.'"

"No he wouldn't," said Maurice.  "I saw it all,
and it would have gone just the same had Bowerman's
spear kept sound.  Lisle had got him neatly in the
beaver--nothing could have kept him in his seat."

"That's all you know about it!  Why, couldn't he
have held on to the reins?"

"And what'd be the use of that, when he was being
knocked over sideways?"

And so the boys wrangled until they were set to
work by the chaplain.

After they had been working rather less steadily
than usual, and Dicky had drawn down upon his
head some very severe rebukes from Sir Simon
Halberd, while "Pig's Eyes" was so very much more
stupid than ordinary that even the gentle Sir Simon's
commonly placid spirit was ruffled, and he complained
loudly of his dulness, a message came that Ralph
Lisle was wanted in the Captain's room.

Wondering what was the matter, Ralph hastily
complied with the summons.  On opening the
Captain's door, he found Lord Woodville pacing up
and down the room.  Seeing Ralph enter, he stopped,
and greeted him with a kindly smile.

"My child," he said, "thou bearedst thyself right
gallantly this morning, and I liked thy courtesy and
gentleness even more than thy prowess.  Go on like
that and thou wilt make a full, gentle, perfect knight;
for gentleness, courtesy, and thought for others
become a good knight quite as much as hardihood and
masterfulness."

Ralph's face glowed with joy at these commendations
from his lord, and he rejoiced to hear this
renowned and skilful warrior using very nearly the
same words as his father had done on the eve of his
quitting home.

"I have sent for thee, my page, to tell thee I have
heard no news of thy lost missive.  Thinkest thou
now that the whole matter was but a dream?"

Ralph had by this time forgotten all about the last
night's adventure.  It all came before him in its
startling reality.  It could not have been a dream.

"My lord," he answered, "I think it was no dream;
how could my clothes have been all soiled with grass
and earth if it were a dream?"

Lord Woodville smiled at the earnestness of the
boy, and said,--

"Well, we will go a-hawking that way this afternoon,
and thou shalt come with us to show us this
terrible scene--perchance we may find trace of thy
strange caitiffs.  Thou must even don thy best, for
thy fair kinswoman, the Mistress Yolande, is to be of
our company."

Ralph would have given worlds not to have
coloured up as he did, but he was never master of
himself when that fair lady's name was mentioned.

"We shall be a large band; I would that Bowerman
could be of it, but I hear his hurt needs care; it
is parlous near his eye, and was a marvellous narrow
chance."

As Ralph left the room he could have danced with joy
at the delightful prospect before him.  He went out to
direct Humphrey to get his horse well groomed, and
have his smartest attire put out for him, and, brimful
of happiness, was returning to the room where the
studies were still going on.  As he passed the chapel
door he found a concourse of men standing round it.
Pushing in among them, he saw a parchment affixed
to the door, and two shields of arms hanging up.
His heart leaped within him.  It was the public
announcement of the tilt or joust.

Not many of the bystanders could read, and the
two or three who were laboriously spelling out the
words for the benefit of the rest, were bidden to stand
aside to let Ralph read it aloud.  Pleased to be able
to make use of his superior advantages, Ralph read
out, in a loud voice, the long and wordy cartel or
general challenge, which was the formal way of
announcing a tilt, joust, or tourney.  After reciting the
names and degree of the challengers, or appellants,
which took up several lines, the proclamation went on
to say that "they were prepared to meet all comers at a
joust, to run in jousting harness along a tilt, and that
they do this, not out of presumption, but only for the
laud and honour of the feast"--it was to take place
on St Michael and All Angels' Day--"for the pleasure
of the ladies, and their own learning and exercise of
deeds of arms, and to enserve the ancient laudable
customs."  It further went on to declare that "the said
worshipful knights, Sir Alain de Kervignac and Sir
Amand de la Roche Guemené, would be at the tilt-yard
of Carisbrooke Castle by eleven of the clock before
noon, to run six courses with any comer ensuing, the
comers to choose their own spears; and if the said six
courses be finished before sundown, then they may
be at liberty to begin other six courses.  And if any
man's horse faileth before he be disarmed, then his
fellow may go on and finish the course for his companion."

The prizes were a ruby ring and a diamond ring.
The cartel was signed by the Breton knights, and
scaled with their signets, and it was countersigned by
"Edward Wydevil, knight, commonly called the Lord
Woodville, Lord and Captain of the Isle of Wight,"
and sealed with his coat of arms.  It also further set
forth that on the second day there would be a tourney
with sword strokes.  There were to be eighteen hand
strokes, but no knight was to "foine" or thrust with
the sword point, on pain of instant dismissal from the
lists.  The strokes were to be given on foot, and with
sword and axes at barriers.

There was a general hum of applause after Ralph
had finished.

"Marry, these Frenchman have done full knightly,"
said one.

"Ay, you may say so! but I would we had more
knights," said another.  "There's none now in the
island who are skilled in the joust."

"There'll have to be some overrunners[\*] asked over,"
said a third.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The local name for newcomers or "foreigners"
from the mainland to the Isle of Wight.

.. vspace:: 2

"If only that right hardy knight Sir George Lisle
of Briddlesford, old Sir William's son, were in these
parts now," said the first speaker.

"I never heard tell of him," replied the other.

"Why should you, comrade?  'Tis many years since
he's been heard of.  There's some as said he were lately
come over with the Lord Lincoln to Stoke field, and
died there in harness, fighting with his face to the
foe, by the side of the Lord Geraldine, Captain
Martin Swartz, Sir Thomas Broughton, and all those
lusty Allemaynes who gave us such hard knocks ere
we made them give in.  But I were with the Herald
when we searched the field, and never saw him there;
and I should have known him alive or dead anywhere.
We were boys together down Briddlesford way."

"Now you've named Sir George Lisle, that minds
me," said the second soldier, "that when King Edward
was alive, he was in rare favour with the king, who
gave him in marriage a right lovely lady.  But there
was some talk of his lady, how, when he was away in
France with old Bear and Ragged Staff, she went off
with some one, I don't rightly remember who."

"Silence, man, an you value your tongue!" said
his comrade.  "That's a tale you'd best not call to
mind hereabouts," he added significantly.

Ralph, full of the news, was going off to the pages'
room, when he noticed the shields.

"What are they for?" he asked of the old man-at-arms
who had just spoken so pointedly to his more
garrulous comrade.

"I' faith, when a knight wants to take up their
challenge, he smiteth on these shields, and his name
and lineage are taken down by the clerk or herald
appointed to put in the roll of the tilt the names of
those who come to take their challenge."

Ralph longed to be able to hit that shield.

"Are any who are not knights admitted to the
joust?" he asked..

"Sometimes, but very rarely.  Howbeit, the judges
have the right to let in whomsoever they choose,
provided he be of noble or gentle birth."

This was enough for Ralph.  He would leave no
stone unturned to obtain leave to splinter a lance in
the approaching jousts.  As he thought of it, the
colour came into his face; he pictured himself riding
in the lists, armed *cap-à-pié*, winning the prize under
the lovely blue eyes of the fair Yolande.  As he
crossed the yard, deep in this delightful thought, he
ran against a man in a monastic dress, who had just
entered by the main gate.

"Certes, my son, thou shouldest give heed to thy
steps," said the monk, as he staggered under the
unprovoked assault.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW JOYOUSLY LIFE GOETH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW JOYOUSLY LIFE GOETH.

.. vspace:: 2

The midday meal was spread in the large hall of
the Captain's apartments.  Sir William Lisle
and his fair daughter had arrived.  Gaily Yolande
was chatting in the large, deep, bay window at the
upper end of the hall, amid a group of young men,
conspicuous among whom were the strongly-marked
features, bullet head, and broad chest of Sir Amand
de la Roche Guemené.  Beside him, but topping him
by some inches, although he was more than ten years
his junior, stood the strong, active figure and boyish,
honest face of Ralph Lisle, gazing at Yolande with
rapturous admiration, but saying never a word,
listening to all she said, and to all that was said to her,
with simple enjoyment.  No thought of selfish
jealousy crossed his mind.  All men must admire so
lovely a girl--what harm in that?  Did not he admire
her too? would not he have willingly suffered
anything for her? would not he be her dog to fetch and
carry, do her slightest wish, be her devoted slave, and
ask for nothing more than to be near her?  No greater
privilege could he have than to do her behests.  The
boy paid her the most absolute homage of his whole
soul and body.  It never occurred to him to ask for
anything in return.  He did not know he wanted
anything more than to be allowed to be always near her,
adore her, minister to her slightest whims.  Whatever
so lovely a being did, was sure to be right.  To question
the acts of so glorious a beauty, was like doubting
divinity.  Ralph was under the glamour of the most
potent spell that ever worked on a pure and generous
nature.  To give utterly to the object of his worship,
was to him the simplest thing.  He would have given
his last farthing to help a poor beggar; what would
he not give to her, who was in his eyes the noblest,
loveliest, purest thing in creation?  Only would she
want anything?  There was the pain.  What could he
give her that she could need?  Had she not
everything?--homage, wealth, youth, beauty?

"And so, my fair cousin, I hear thou hast done
right knightly this forenoon," said Yolande, addressing
him at last, for after the first greeting he had
stood aside to let the more vivacious and older Breton
knights pay their respects to his cousin.

As Yolande spoke, she glanced at his large build,
powerful chest, and tall figure, and then she let her
eyes drop sideways on the smaller proportions of the
Breton knight who stood beside him.  She noticed
the breadth of shoulders, bull neck, and length of arm
of this latter, and thoughtfully said, without paying
any attention to what Ralph blurted out,--

"And so, Sir Amand, you have proclaimed a joust.
'Twas well done of you; and all we poor damoiselles
of the island owe you many thanks.  But I fear me
we have no knights now here will do us poor ladies
justice.  Alas that my stepbrother is not here!"

"Surely, fair lady, thou wilt let me be thy knight?"
said the Breton gentleman.  "I could not have a
fairer queen for whom to lay lance in rest."

"Nay, fair sir, thou surely mockest.  I have heard
that the damoiselles of France are the loveliest in the
world."

Yolande spoke dreamily; she still glanced sideways
at her cousin, and then at the Breton knight.

"I wonder will the Captain tilt?" she asked
absently, toying with a gold chain round her neck.

"Pardie, mademoiselle, I trust he will do us that
honour: but it would be a marvellous gracious
act."

Ralph was yearning to say something to his cousin,
but he could not find the opportunity.  While all
were chatting gaily, waiting lor the Captain of the
Wight, a varlet came up the hall and spoke a few
words to Sir John Trenchard, who directly
afterwards said in a loud voice,--

"The noble Captain is detained by some slight
matter.  He prayeth you all to forgive him, and in
especial that the fair ladies will grant him their
pardon; and desireth that we tarry no more for
dinner.  Master Gamelyn, bring in the covers."

The guests all sat down, and quickly the dishes
were brought in.  The Lord Abbot of Quarr was
there; the Prior of Carisbrooke Priory, now belonging
to the great Carthusian Monastery of Sheen; and the
two Bailiffs of Newport, and their wives and daughters,
who, however, sat at another table.  The Chaplain of
the castle said grace, and the dinner began.

Gracefully the pages handed and carved the dishes,
assisted by the varlets and serving-men; but the
absence of the noble host caused a slight depression.

Yolande, as the lady of highest birth there, was
placed next the vacant chair of the Captain of the
Wight, and on her left sat Sir Amand de la Roche
Guemené; while on the other side of the empty chair
sat Lady Trenchard, and on her right the other Breton
noble.  The remaining guests were placed, according
to their degree, all down the long table.

The conversation turned upon the approaching tilt,
and all were loud in their praises of the public spirit
of the two foreigners.

The chief Bailiff of Newport, who sat opposite Sir
Alain de Kervignac, was deploring the sad state of
the island, saying how different it was fifty years ago,
when he was a lad.

"Then, my lord, there were ten thousand fencible
men, and above thirty knights and esquires.  But
within ten years after, the which ten thousand men
were anentised through pestilence and wars, and some
voided because of extortioners, that there were scarce
twelve hundred of fencible men, and knights never
one, and esquires no more but Harry Bruyn, esquire
of His Majesty's household, that might labour about
wars."

"Ay, Master Gander, thou sayest truth," said Sir
John Trenchard.  "But my Lord of York gave heed
somewhat, although he was sorely let and hindered
by reason of the grievous jealousies he was subject
to, and being sent over to Ireland, could never do all
he minded to; but we shall show these noble gentlemen
fine sport yet, I'll warrant."

"Certes, Sir John," said the other Bailiff, "you are
ever i' the right.  But I mind me how Master John
of Newport, who is but lately dead, I hear, so peeled
and oppressed the townsfolk and fencible people of
this island as to cause most part of the better sort to
leave the isle.  And then he, being discharged by the
Duke of York for his misgovernance, with others of
his sect, took to the sea, and sore threatened and
jeopardised the king's people of the isle, so that
there was not fifteen fencible people left, and no staff
of men nor archers.  Truly we were in parlous sad case."

"Marry, Master Farseye, doubtless it was as you
say; but we are now full powerful and well stored.
And there are, as you may see, looking round at this
table, and down yonder hall, plenty of stout limbs
and brave hearts that will give a sensible account of
themselves and the enemy in time of need, even as
well and manfully as they did in the time of King
Richard the Second, when Sir Hugh Tyrell, that right
valiant knight--on whose soul may God have mercy--cut
off the Frenchmen and utterly routed them, in so
much that the lane now called Deadman's Lane, and
Neddie's Hill, were covered with the bodies of the
slain."

"Ay, truly, 'twas so; but albeit 'twas a glorious
battle, yet our fathers got not off scathless, for
besides that Sir Theobald Russell was slain in a former
attack, thirty-seven years before, Francheville and
Yarmouth were burnt to the ground, and the French
retired not afore they had levied a fine or ransom of
1000 marks, and our fathers had given pledges that
they would submit to the Frenchmen for a whole
twelve months."

"Not so bad as that, Master Farseye: they were
only to submit if they should come over again," said
Master Gander.

The Abbot of Quarr was engaged in pleasant converse
with a buxom and jovial dame, the heiress of
the old family of the Roucleys, who had come into
the Manor of Brooke by marriage with the last of the
Glamorgans, one of six ladies who inherited the estate
from their brother Nicholas de Glamorgan, Lord of
Brooke, the last male heir.  This lady was Dame
Joanna Bowerman, who was lately married to the
eldest brother of Eustace Bowerman, and who, ten
years afterwards, had the honour of entertaining
King Henry VII. in her house of Brooke.

Ralph determined to have a few minutes' private
talk with his kinsman the Abbot, and as he bent over
him to hand him a dish of trout in jelly, a great
luxury, he whispered,--

"An it please you, my Lord Abbot, may I have a
word with you anon?"

"Surely, my son; there is naught amiss, I hope?"

"Nay, my lord; 'tis a matter of small import."

At this moment Lord Woodville entered the hall.
All rose to do the Captain of the Wight honour.
Craving pardon for his lack of courtesy, he prayed
them to be seated, and then took his seat next
Mistress Yolande, who greeted him with a radiant smile.

"My lord, I am right glad thou hast come.  Sir
Amand here hath used up all his pretty conceits, and
very nearly his appetite."

"You amaze me, fair lady!  Can a French gentleman
fail in one or the other, and with such a theme
as thy fair self to discourse of."

"Ay, truly, and with such a banquet as thy noble
self hath provided.  But, most puissant Captain, is it
true that thou are going to break a lance in the
approaching tilt?"

"Not that I know of, fair lady," said Lord Woodville
coldly.

"But thou wilt an thou art asked?" said Yolande,
fixing her soft blue eyes full upon his.

"Marry, fair lady, there are younger knights than
me to ride courses for love of ladies.  I am getting
past the age for such pastimes."

"Now, nay! a thousand times, nay!  Sir Amand,
help me to gain our end!"

"Pardie, an so lovely a lady cannot soften the heart
of the noble Captain, how can the prayers of a poor
simple knight like me do it?" said the knight,
shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, Sir Captain," said Yolande, "if thou wilt not
grant that request, at least thou wilt not refuse my
other prayer.  Wilt thou let my cousin Ralph run a
course?  I hear he hath done right hardily to-day."

"With right goodwill, fair mistress.  I saw how
well he bore himself this forenoon.  I had even now
minded to make him an esquire of my body."

Yolande glanced across to look for Ralph, but he
was standing close behind her, and had heard every
word.  His joy was so great that he could scarcely
fulfil his duties.  In his eagerness to have an excuse
to say something to his lovely kinswoman, he picked
up the first dish that came to hand, and, as he bent
over her to offer it, he whispered,--

"Thank you, cousin, thank you! 'tis the kindest
service you could do me."

"But, fair kinsman, that is no reason you should
offer me 'pasties of venison roast,' with 'plums in
paste,' which I happen to be eating.  'Tis but a poor
return for my kindness."

Ralph, much abashed, drew back; not, however,
before Dicky Cheke saw his mistake, who made a
hideous face at him, and as he passed dug his knuckles
into his back, saying at the same time,--

"Poor witling! how parlous awkward it is; 'twill
never make a good serving page."

Fortunately for Ralph there was a general move
soon afterwards, and the horses were being brought
round to the hall door.  In the midst of the confusion
Ralph took the opportunity of going up to the Abbot
and telling him his business.

"What!" said the Abbot, amazed; "and thou
calledst that a matter of small import, quotha?"

Ralph was a bad hand at asking favours--those
who give easily usually are.  However, he could not
abandon this request.

"My lord," he said, "'tis but to advance me such
sums that I may appear as becometh the ancient
house of Lisle.  You gave me to my lord, you would
not have me disgrace my name and lineage."

Seeing how earnest the boy was, and how reasonable
was his request, the Abbot began to relent.

"Marry, lad, thou art a brave youth and a good,
thou shalt have the wherewithal to caparison thyself.
Go to Master Longstoke, who dwelleth in Lugley
Street, by the sign of the Blue Boar, he will purvey
for thee what thou needest.  I will look in upon him
as I ride home to-night.  He will then have my
warranty."

All things seemed joyous to Ralph to-day.  With
profusion of thanks he helped the Abbot of Quarr on
to his horse, and then hastened to look after his cousin;
but she was already mounted, and chatting gaily with
the Captain of the Wight and his Breton guests.

When all were mounted the cavalcade rode out
through the large gateway.  It was a gay sight to
see the long lines of varlets, with the dogs and falcons,
the fair ladies riding amid groups of gentlemen, with
hawk on fist, and riding-whip in hand.  The crowd
that had collected at the castle gates greeted each
knight and lady as they came out with freely-expressed
remarks; and when the Captain of the Wight
appeared with Yolande Lisle riding by his side, the
two Breton knights a little behind her with her old
father, there were loud shouts of applause, and many
complimentary cheers for the noble foreigners who
were going to provide so much amusement.

The cavalcade took the way down to Shide Bridge
and so up the valley of the Medina, intending to fly
their hawks at the quarry that was sure to be met
with among the low lands between the Medina and
the Yare.

They were not disappointed; a fine heron was soon
started, and the Captain's bird--a noble peregrine
falcon--was cast off after it.  As Lord Woodville
watched the flight of his bird, he called Ralph up to
him, who, as in duty bound, had been in close attendance
on his person.

"Thy missive hath been found, my child," said his
lord gravely.  "Thou didst not dream: I would that
thou hadst."

Ralph remained silent.  Lord Woodville went on,
in rather an abstracted tone,--

"'Twas a bold game, and I marvel how he hath
gotten into the island; but he knoweth he is safe from
me, except in so far as I myself may chastise him for
his insolence.  He hath done me far more wrong than
ever he thinketh that I have done to him."

The rest of the cavalcade, now that the Captain's
bird had been flown, had dispersed after their own
hawks, which only waited for this signal to be cast off.

"My lord, thy falcon hath gotten a long way ahead,
and maketh toward the high land yonder," said Ralph,
who saw his cousin cantering gaily ahead, escorted as
usual by her faithful admirer the Breton knight.
Before disappearing over a rise in the land she reined
up, turned round to Lord Woodville, and waved her
whip aloft, inviting them to follow.

"There is Mistress Lisle beckoning to thee, my lord,"
said Ralph.

"Marry, is she? then we will even follow, Master
Lisle, if it pleaseth thee," said the Captain, with a smile.

As they cantered over the marshy land, followed
by a few varlets on foot, whose business it was to
carry fresh birds on a wooden framework suspended
round their necks by straps, Ralph kept close behind
the Captain.  When they reached the top of the
rising ground where they had last seen the graceful
figure of Mistress Yolande, a strange sight met their eyes.
The Breton knight's horse was sunk over its fetlocks
in a quagmire, and its rider was in an almost kneeling
position on its back, with the evident desire of getting
as far away from the treacherous slime as possible.

"I told him not to go," said Yolande, laughing at
the sad plight of the poor gentleman.

The attendant varlets were directed to assist the
knight out of his difficulties, while Yolande rode off
with the Lord Woodville and Ralph, who was delighted
at the change.

As they rode rapidly across the lower ground towards
Godshill, the page told with eager joy to his
cousin how the Abbot of Quarr had promised to
equip him gallantly, and he entered into all the
details of the horse he would buy, the armour, and
the device he would wear upon his shield.

"You must have a lady's favour, Ralph.  Is there
anyone you would like?" asked Yolande, smiling at him.

Ralph coloured up, and he answered shyly,--

"Cousin Yolande, will you give me yours?"

"Well, now, I *am* highly favoured.  And you really
would not rather have that of Mistress Bremskete, or
the fair Mistress Susan Gander?"

But Ralph was not good at raillery, he was far too
much in earnest to enter into a joke, and Yolande
saw the shafts of her wit would only fall flat or be
misunderstood.

"But, cousin Ralph, I have promised my favour elsewhere."

Ralph looked at her with bitter disappointment.

"'Tis true 'tis as well to have two strings to one's
bow, and why you did not say so I don't know, for I
might never have thought of it myself, and so you
might have lost a very good chance.  Well, what do
you say; shall I give you one as well?"

"But, Yolande, may a lady have two knights in the
same tourney?"

"Why, marry, yea!  At least I see no reason why
not.  One can have them everywhere else.  Let us
ask the Captain."

Lord Woodville had been riding on lost in abstraction.
They had left Godshill on their right.  They
were now skirting the high hills, the outlying spurs
of Week Down.  Hearing his name mentioned, the
Captain of the Wight turned round; as he did so, he
caught sight of a figure, and instantly his face became
as pale as death, and then flushed up with angry fire.

The quick eyes of Yolande did not fail to detect
the change.  Her eyes glanced in the direction of
Lord Woodville.  She saw a man in a common dress
standing by the side of an old thorn bush.

"'Tis only a hind belonging to the Priory of
Appuldurcombe.  I marvel what hath come to the
Captain," she murmured.

The man had been standing watching the little
calvacade approach, but as it drew nearer he stepped
back on to a more rugged piece of ground at the foot
of the steep hill behind, and which was difficult for
horses, being all broken and covered with gorse.

Lord Woodville rode forward, motioning to the
others to remain behind.  Ralph could not help
thinking he had seen that figure before.  Where had
he seen it?--he could not recollect.

"Marry, Ralph, 'tis a bold hind; see how he scowls
on the Captain.  By St Bride, he hath broad shoulders,
and bears himself as if of gentle blood.  I
would give a good deal to know what the Captain is
saying to him.  I shall ride nearer."

But the Captain of the Wight heard the steps of
her horse; he looked back with a stern glance, and
said gravely,--

"Mistress Lisle, under your leave, I would say a
few words alone."

There was no help for it; with a pettish air, but
not at all disconcerted, Yolande said her nag wanted
to browse on that sweet bit of grass there, and
returned to Ralph.

After the interchange of a few words, the Captain
rejoined the others, and the man disappeared into the
tall furze behind the old thorn bush.

"We've lost our heronshaw," said Mistress Yolande,
pouting.

"Nay, the varlets will bring the quarry in," said
the Captain.  "But what building have we here."

"'Tis the nunnery of Appuldurcombe," said Yolande.
"Marry, I am sore athirst.  Prythee, let us go there,
and ask the kind sister for a draught of ale or hippocras."

"Right gladly, fair mistress," said Lord Woodville,
and they cantered over the smooth turf towards the
grey stone wall which surrounded the picturesque
roofs and gables of the old Priory of Appuldurcombe,
now a cell of the convent of the order of Saint Clare,
without Aldgate, in the City of London.  As they
rode up, the chapel bell was tolling to vespers.

"Marry, 'tis later than I thought," said Yolande.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW THE COCKEREL FELT HE WAS BUT A COCKEREL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE COCKEREL FELT HE WAS BUT A COCKEREL.

.. vspace:: 2

The old Priory of Appuldurcombe was situated
in a most lovely spot, nestling in thick woods
whose brown and russet foliage climbed the steep
sides of the lofty downs surrounding it; the
high-pitched gable of the little chapel, and the
quaintly-grouped pile of grey buildings, looked serene and
peaceful in that sequestered nook amid the
ever-lasting hills.

Originally granted by the piety of stout Earl
Richard de Redvers to his new foundation of
Montsburg in Normandy, it was used as a cell for a prior
and two monks to look after their farms of
Appuldurcombe, Sandford, and Week.  But, sharing the
fate of other alien foundations, it was taken from
them by Henry IV. and granted to the nuns of St
Clare, without Aldgate, who eventually obtained a
grant of it from the Monastery of Montsburg, and so
possessed it until the dissolution of the monasteries.

The Convent of St Clare, without Aldgate, at this
time was accustomed to send two sisters and a prioress
to look after their interests, and used the cell as a
place of peaceful resort and change of air from London.
The sisters could walk in these retired woods and
sheltered groves without fear of observation or
molestation, and were much beloved by the labourers on
the farms belonging to the Nunnery.  It is quite
evident from Chaucer that the nuns did not always
observe the strictest seclusion, even in the Metropolis;
and how well some at least of them were versed in
the pleasures and technicalities of field sports is
abundantly clear in the works of Dame Juliana
Berners, popularly supposed to have been Prioress of
Sopewell, near St Albans.

As the Captain of the Wight rode up with Yolande
and Ralph, the chapel bell ceased.

"We will wait till their orisons be over," said
Lord Woodville.

They had now leisure to look round, and even the
matter-of-fact Ralph and high-spirited Yolande were
impressed with the still loveliness of the scene.  The
blue smoke from the conventual kitchen and labourers'
cottages curled into the quiet air, and floated away
amid the rich brown leaves of the autumnal wood.
The grass, green and soft, like velvet to the tread,
showed the fertility of the soil, and the lowing of the
cows, which were being driven from their pasture,
added a pastoral melody to the sylvan scene.

An old woman and a young girl came out of a
small door pierced in the high stone wall which
surrounded the little settlement, and hid the lower storey
from outward observation.

"What a pretty child!" said Yolande, with generous
admiration.  "Did you ever see such eyes?"

Ralph looked as he was told, but, boy like, paid little
attention to the looks of a girl evidently younger than
himself.  Besides, in comparison with the brilliant
Yolande, whose every movement was grace, and every
word fascination, how could he admire aught else?
And was not Yolande, in addition, at least four years
older than himself?

The soft eyes of the girl, however, seemed to recognise
Ralph.  She gave him a shy little nod of welcome
and acknowledgment.

"Why, my cousin, she knoweth thee!" said Yolande.
"Who is she?"

"Nay, I know not," said Ralph, not quite pleased
at being nodded to in that familiar way by so poorly
clad a little girl.

"Good mother," said the Captain of the Wight,
"wilt thou ask the Lady Prioress if she will grant this
fair lady a draught of ale or hippocras?"

The old woman only shook her head, but the girl
glanced up at the Captain's face, and then said,--

"Noble sir, Gammer Audrey is deaf.  I will run in
and ask Sister Agnes," and the child drew her hand
out of that of the old woman, and disappeared through
the door.

"'Tis strange!" muttered the Lord Woodville; "her
eyes are wondrous like, and the voice--old memories
are stirring, methinks, to-day."

In a few minutes the figure of a nun carrying a
tray on which were a flagon and some pewter cups,
appeared at the narrow door, followed by the girl,
bearing a dish with a few apples piled upon it.

The nun had hardly passed out of the door when
she gave a little stagger, and nearly dropped the
things she was carrying.  Recovering herself with an
effort, she approached Yolande.

"My faith, my Lord Woodville, if the girl were
lovely, what think you of the sister?" said Yolande.

Lord Woodville looked at the nun, as she
approached, and became deadly pale.

"How could it be!" he murmured.  "I heard she
was dead!"

"Well," observed Yolande, "of all strange things,
this is the most parlous bewildering!  Who'd have
thought the unmoved Lord Woodville could be so
passing stirred twice in the same hour?"

The nun poured out the hippocras, and offered it to
Yolande, who took it from the fair hand of the draped
and veiled figure, with the curiosity and awe which
all women feel when brought face to face with one of
their own sex who is utterly dead to the world.  The
air of mystery, romance, and sanctity which surround
the convent life was not then probably so powerful as
now.  Then, the nuns lived more openly, and were a
part of the everyday life of society.  But to Yolande,
with her strong love of life, its amusements, its follies,
and its excitement, it seemed like being confronted
with death to look at that pale face, downcast eyes,
and shrouded figure.

.. _`THE NUN OFFERED THE WINE TO YOLANDE`:

.. figure:: images/img-148.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: THE NUN OFFERED THE WINE TO YOLANDE.

   THE NUN OFFERED THE WINE TO YOLANDE.

The nun's face was strikingly beautiful.  Her
features were very straight, with splendid eyebrows,
and a sweet mouth, whose full lips were rendered
almost more attractive by the little droop at each corner
producing a soft dimple in the rounded cheek.  The
long lashes lay like a fringe over her magnificent dark
hazel eyes, and as she stood, quite impassive and
expressionless, only deadly pale, Yolande felt drawn towards
her as she had never felt drawn to any woman before.

The Captain of the Wight kept his eyes fixed on
the sweet face.

"Pious lady," he said, "we are greatly indebted
to thee for thy hospitable courtesy.  Hast thou been
in these parts long?"

Obliged to answer, the nun, still keeping her eyes,
however, steadily on the ground, said, in a low, deep
melodious voice,--

"Noble sir, Sister Ursula and I came hither but
three months since."

"Holy saints!" muttered the Captain, "'tis her
very voice!"

Then, after a pause, he said,--

"Thou art happy and peaceful here?  There is
naught that frights or disturbs you?"

A little flicker passed over the statue-like features.
A slight tremor of the mouth, and a quiver of the
eyelids, showed the nun was suffering from some not
quite controlled emotion.  Bending her head a little
down, and keeping her eyes more than ever on the
ground, she said, in her bell-like voice,--

"Noble sir, there is naught that frights us."

"And this girl, who is she?" asked the Captain.

"'Tis a child which hath been brought hither for
our Prioress to tend."

"Hath she no relatives here?"

"Nay, I know not; but she is well with us," said the
nun, looking at the child with affection.  It was the
first expression of softer feeling that had yet come
into her face.

The child returned her look with love and bright
confidence.

"Thou art happy here?" said Yolande.

"Ay, truly am I," replied the girl; "now I know
father will be safe."

"And who is thy father, sweet child?"

"He is a noble knight, but I may not tell his
name," said the girl.

"Dost thou know, holy sister?" said Yolande,
unable to repress her natural curiosity.

The nun looked a trifle surprised, as if not
expecting such a breach of manners in so high-born a
damsel, but she replied, as coldly as ever,--

"Nay, I know naught that passeth in the world.
None who enter here have name, or kin on earth."

Yolande shivered.  It seemed like talking to a
ghost.

As her thirst was now assuaged, and none of the
others would take any more--although Lord Woodville
took an apple from the pretty child, and in doing
so availed himself of the opportunity of slipping a
gold coin on to the dish, the nun withdrew as silently
as she came, and the girl accompanied her, giving
another nod of friendly farewell to Ralph.

"'Tis getting late, Lord Woodville, and I must be
riding home," said Yolande.  "Where my father hath
gotten to, I know not; and as for my poor Breton,
good lack!" and she broke into a merry laugh.

They rode away from the peaceful vale, the
long shadows of evening falling across the plain,
and the chill mist of the marshland rising in white
film around.  They were a silent party.  Lord
Woodville was plunged in deep reverie.  Yolande could
not strike any sparks of wit out of Ralph, who
worshipped her far too seriously to be quite at home
and at his ease, and took in serious dudgeon the
playful raillery with which his cousin treated him on the
subject of the dark-eyed damsel.

"You silly boy, you think you are fond of me; but
when you reach the age of manhood, and are of an
age to marry, the lady of your choice will be one who
is now a girl of just that little one's age.  You mark
my words."

"And what do you call the right age to marry?"
asked the crestfallen Ralph.

"Oh, not before you are thirty or forty, or fifty or
sixty.  There!  I'll marry you when I am sixty.  So
now go and be happy, and grow as fast as you can; in
wisdom, at least, for your body is big enough, good
lack!"

As they rode back into the more cultivated land
they met parties of two or three of the expedition
returning from the chase; and as they passed Arreton
Church they fell in with Sir William Lisle, who had
been looking for his daughter, accompanied by Sir
Amand de la Roche Guemené, who was mounted on
a fresh horse.

"Marry, Sir Amand, where's thy horse?" laughed
Yolande.

"Pardie, mademoiselle, zat I cannot tell.  I left 'im
in ze vase."[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] "Vase," Anglicé "mud."

.. vspace:: 2

"What vase?" said the astonished Yolande.  "It
must be a mighty big one if it can hold a horse."

"*Foi de mon ordre!* no; it would sallow 'im as easy as
anyzing, and me too, 'ad I been ze fool to stop on 'im."

"Good lack! a vase swallow a horse and man?  The
poor man's lost his wits!" cried Yolande, while Ralph
looked very much astonished, and began to laugh.

"Vat you go for to laugh, young man?" said the
disconcerted and puzzled Breton.  "Is zere anyzing
drole in ze vase svalloving a man?"

"Why, beshrew me, there is!" said old Sir William
Lisle.  "Thou hast got hold of the wrong word; 'tis
mud thou meanest, not a vase.  Good lack! good
lack! how these munseers do show their ignorance."

As Yolande and her father were not going back to
Carisbrooke Castle, they took leave of their noble host,
and rode away across the downs to Briddlesford, which
lay at the head of the long winding creek which
flowed in from the Solent, while the others pursued
their way back to the castle.

The Captain of the Wight seemed plunged into a
deeper reverie than ever, and scarcely spoke one word
the whole way back.  Ralph's mind was full of the
tournament, and of the Abbot's promise to let him
have money enough to equip himself as became an
aspirant to chivalry.

As soon as he had an opportunity, he took Maurice
Woodville and Dicky Cheke aside and told them of
his good fortune.

"My faith, Lisle, you are in luck.  How much will
he give you?"

"I don't know; but he said he would tell old
Langstoke to let me have what I wanted."

"Well, an I were you, I'd strike while the iron is
hot.  I should get leave from old Jack-in-Harness to
go down to-night, and lose no time.  There's only six
days before the Feast of St Michael," said Maurice
Woodville.

"Ay, so should I," said Dicky Cheke.  "And, I say,
Lisle, ask him to let us go too.  We can help you; you're
such a simpleton, any chapman can cheat you.  You
big fellows always are stupid and easily overreached."

Giving Dicky Cheke a tweak of the nose, which
caused that young gentleman to rush after him as he
left the room, and kick violently against the door,
which Ralph prudently shut, with happy promptitude,
behind him, Master Lisle went off to look for Sir John
Trenchard.

He tapped at the door of the knight's apartments,
and hearing a voice say "Come in," he opened the
door, and found Bowerman reclining on a couch, his
head bandaged and his eyes closed.  He was alone.

"Who's that?" said the wounded page.

"Oh, Bowerman, I am grievous sad to see you look
in such parlous case," said Ralph, his conscience pricking
him for not having inquired after, or been to see,
his wounded comrade before.

At the sound of Ralph's voice, Bowerman's face
flushed up; and in a voice whose tones expressed
concentrated hate, he said,--

"You fiend you! who asked you to come here?"

"Well, Bowerman, I don't see why you should bear
me such ill-will.  'Twas not my fault you met with
your mishap."

"Yes, it was.  If you had not aimed at the beaver,[\*]
which you know well enough is the weakest part of
the whole armour, I should not have got that splinter
in my cheek."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] The visor.

.. vspace:: 2

"But," said Ralph, taken aback by this novel ground
of accusation, "you could have aimed at mine; and,
besides, the beaver would never have come open, had
it been tightly clasped."

"That's all as may be! but I knew you had never
done anything of the kind before, so I hit you where
there was least danger; and in return for my good
nature, you took a cowardly advantage of me."

Ralph coloured up.

"Bowerman, I have told you I am grieved you are
hurt--if I could do anything to help you, I would;
but, because you are wounded, you have no right to
say such unjust and untrue things."

"There, that's just like your mean, lily-livered
nature.  Here I lie, unable to get up and punish you,
all through your own base fault, and then you come in
when no one is here, and tell me I tell lies!"

Ralph felt his temper rising, but he kept as calm as
he could.

"You know, Bowerman, you are not just.  But as
you are suffering, I will not get angry.  I can do
nothing for you, then?"

"Ay, marry can you, and that speedily--get out
of this room!"

At this moment Lady Trenchard entered.

"Ah, Master Lisle, that is right courteous of you,
and as one of gentle birth should do, to come and
visit your discomfited comrade.  I marvelled you
had not come afore.  But I heard you were out
with the Lord Captain, and so I told Master Bowerman."

Ralph felt a little uncomfortable.  He did not
deserve these excuses, for he had forgotten all about
Bowerman.  Lady Trenchard went on.

"Tell us now what sport you had.  'Twill cheer us
up, and be as good as a tale for your comrade.  'Twill
be kind in him, will it not, Master Bowerman?"

But the wounded page only tossed on his couch and
uttered a sound, half groan, half smothered
exclamation of furious rage.

"Ah, poor lad! he suffers much.  I fear me these
are febrile signs.  'Twill be well to have the worthy
and pious Sir Simon Halbard to bleed him.  He is
something of a leech, and was infirmarer once, I heard,
at Quarr Abbey; but thy tale will solace him, and
take away his thoughts from the pain of the wound."

Ralph longed to get away, but he was too polite to
refuse to do what Lady Trenchard asked him.  He
began--determining to make the narrative as brief as
possible--to tell the chief events of the afternoon.

As he told of the Breton knight being stuck in the
mud, a grunt of satisfaction proceeded from Bowerman.

"Ah! thou seest, Master Lisle.  I told thee thy
tale would solace him, and help to drive away his
pain," said Lady Trenchard complacently.

When Ralph came to the nuns, and told how they
had so willingly brought refreshment for Yolande, of
whom, by the way, he scarcely spoke at all, Lady
Trenchard remarked,--

"Ah, the Lady Abbess of Saint Clare, without
Aldgate, wrote to me to go over and see the two new
sisters who have come down of late.  I am glad thou
hast reminded me of this, fair page.  There is one in
whom she taketh much concern, as fearing for her
health.  She hath had trials in the world, and hath
not yet gotten cured of them.  And so thou rodest
all day with the fair Mistress Yolande?" added the
grave and erect Lady Trenchard, with a penetrating
glance.

Ralph grew very red.

"Yea, my lady--that is, nay.  She rode with my
Lord Captain, and I waited on him, as was my duty."

"Ay, and so she rode with the Captain?  Like
enough, like enough!"  Then, after a pause she added,
as if in a soliloquy, "Ah well, she won't make much
of him, poor lass.  His heart's been broke these
twelve years or more.  'Tis a sad story, and not one
you lads would care to hear."

"Yes, I should, Dame Trenchard," said Bowerman
shortly, while Ralph looked up surprised.  It had
never crossed his mind that so exalted a person, and
so rigid as the Captain of the Wight, could possibly
have a weakness or a romance.

"Nay, nay," said Lady Trenchard, sorry she had
aroused their curiosity, "'tis a long and sad story, and
not one that will give you joy.  Besides, 'twas a
kinsman of Master Lisle who married the fair girl, sore
against her will; but her own true knight was away,
and her father's and the king's will had to be obeyed,
and so she was wed.  But not for long--she soon died,
they said; but who knows?  'Twas a sad story."

And Lady Trenchard nodded her head gravely, then
shook it sadly, as if she saw some sad mistake
occurring, and lapsed into silence.

"But what of the Captain of the Wight, Dame
Trenchard?" said Bowerman.  "What hath he to do
in all this?"

"The Captain of the Wight! what of him?" said
Lady Trenchard absently.  Her thoughts had gone
off to the shortcomings of her maids, and whether
Dame Joanna Bowerman would not have looked better
in a black cote hardie, and lemon-coloured taffeta
kirtle, than the yellow one which she wore, with a
bright blue bodice.

"Not but what she tireth herself well, does Joanna
Bowerman.  I mind her when she was little Joanna
Roucley.  She always did have a liking for smart
things, and she's a woman that bears them well--I will
say that for her.  But she lacked skill in colour."

"But what of the Captain?" persisted Bowerman.

"Well! what of the Captain?" said Lady Trenchard,
with some slight asperity.  "I know naught of the
Captain.  He hath come back, I trow?"

"Yea, but you were telling me of some love affair
of his."

"Marry, was I? not that I know of.  You sleep
now, Master Bowerman; 'twill be best for you," said
Lady Trenchard decisively.

Eustace Bowerman muttered something that sounded
very like "old hag," and "obstinate old harridan," which
was quite unheeded by Lady Trenchard; and Ralph
took the opportunity to slip out of the room.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OF THE SHARPENING OF THE COCKEREL'S SPURS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   OF THE SHARPENING OF THE COCKEREL'S SPURS.

.. vspace:: 2

And now the morning of the Feast of St Michael
had come.  All the preparations were complete,
and the lists were ready decked.  The green
sward between the stout palings, gaily painted and
bedizened with flags, was divided in the middle by a
barrier, which was covered with a gorgeous hanging,
and parted the lists lengthways into two equal divisions.

As Dicky Cheke and Ralph Lisle strolled round in
the early morning--for there was no drill that day, and
all ordinary exercises were suspended--they were
delighted at the handsome appearance of the
preparations.  The covered gallery or grand-stands for
the ladies; the numberless poles, gilded and painted,
from which gay shields of arms were hung, and still
gayer banners and banderoles fluttered; the lavish
adornment and laborious preparations, struck them
with astonishment, although they had seen the work
going on for some days past.

"In sooth, Dicky, there's been great charges here.
Who pays the cost?"

"Why the Captain, certes, though the Bretons pay
some of it; but 'tis rarely done, i' faith.  Thou'rt a
lucky wight, Ralph, but thou wilt get a fall to-day,
for 'tis not 'gainst 'Pig's Eyes' or Bowerman thou
wilt ride, so make up thy mind to comfort thy broken
bones."

"Ay, marry will I," said Ralph, laughing.  "But I
trust to do my devoir without disgrace.  But 'twas
a sad mischance Black Tom went lame," added the
boy, changing his merry tone to a sad one.  "He was
*the* horse of all others for a tilt.  Such depth of chest,
such limbs and wind!  Beshrew me if I can think
how he could have gone lame like that, and only
yesterday too.  'Twas a rare mischance," and Ralph
looked very downcast.

With the money, or rather the order which the
Abbot of Quarr had given to pay for all things
needful to the merchant, Master Langstoke, Ralph
had bought two very serviceable horses, one a great
bargain.  He had been guided in his choice by
Humphrey, who was a likely man at buying cattle.  This
horse had belonged to an esquire who had been killed at
the battle of Stoke, and was thoroughly broken to all
the work of the tilt-yard and the battlefield.  Ralph
had been delighted at getting such an animal, and
the congratulations he received upon it.  Many old
hands had told him that a good horse was more than
half the battle, and all who saw Black Tom were
loud in their praises of his good points.

"Ye see, Master Lisle, 'tis this way," remarked Lord
Woodville's head varlet or groom.  "A 'oss that's too
quiet be't no good, nor a 'oss that's all fire.  What
you wants is a animal that's used to the work, and
this 'un be, for I knows 'un."

The horse was perfectly sound the night before last.
Ralph had ridden him that afternoon at a little quiet
practice at the quintain first, and then at a light tilt
with Tom o' Kingston, and nothing could have been
better.  But the next morning Humphrey came early
with a very long face to say that he didn't "like the
looks o' Black Tom at all, he were so tender on his
near fore leg, and the pastern were all swollen like
and hot."

This was bad news.  All the authorities of the
castle were consulted, and a careful examination of
the tender hoof was made, with the result that it was
found that a sharp nail had penetrated the hoof,
causing severe inflammation.  It was impossible that the
poor animal could be ridden for some weeks, perhaps
for some months.

But how had it happened?  There was the mystery;
and several old hands shook their heads, and did not
hesitate to say that there had been foul play.  Ralph's
disappointment was intense, and Maurice Woodville
and Dicky Cheke were profuse in their expressions
of sympathy.  Every one in the castle felt for Ralph's
mishap, for he was now a universal favourite, his
modesty, good nature, and brave bearing having
endeared him to every one; and he was also well known
and liked in the town of Newport, so that the news of
the strange accident had spread round the neighbourhood
in very little time.

The days before the tournament had been spent in
perpetual practice at the quintain, and tilting against
each other in half armour and with very light lances,
made so slight as to break with but little force.  In
this way the boys had become excellent hands at
aiming their spears to the best advantage, and in
becoming used to the shock of the blow, so as to grow
accustomed to the knack of holding on to the saddle
with their knees at the exact moment without losing
their nerve.  In these encounters Dicky Cheke and
Maurice Woodville were very fairly matched, and such
falls as they had were pretty evenly balanced, although
Dicky, if he got the worst of it, invariably had some
excellent reason for his mishap, and was voluble in
his explanations, while Maurice took it quietly, and
was even a little disconcerted by his misfortune.

Bowerman had nearly recovered, and was to be
allowed to take part in the forthcoming tourney, but
he was not allowed to practise at the tilting with the
others, for fear of opening his wound again by any
mischance.  He had therefore practised at the
quintain, and other exercises that taught him to aim and
strike, without, however, receiving a blow in return.

Willie Newenhall had thus been left to tilt always
with Ralph Lisle, and although the latter, when he
had knocked his antagonist off once or twice, refrained,
out of pure good nature, from putting forth all his
strength and dexterity, yet "Pig's Eyes" was very
wrath and sore at being so manifestly inferior to one
so much younger than himself.

More than ever the five pages were divided into
sides.  Newenhall and Bowerman scarcely ever spoke
to the other three, and never lost a chance of getting
them into trouble if they could, or of making them
do work which was unpleasant to themselves.

Ralph was very good-natured, and would have done
anything for Bowerman, in spite of his violent
language and the manifest hatred the latter bore him.
But Dicky Cheke resented their treatment, and took
every opportunity of annoying or crossing the others.
He and Woodville were frequently the victors in this
sparring of rival wits; and if only they could get
"Pig's Eyes" alone, he had a very uncomfortable
time of it.

Ralph had provided for the approaching pageant
with considerable wisdom, in spite of Dicky Cheke's
mistrust of his powers.  He had been able to buy,
besides the two horses, a very fine suit of tilting
armour, and two splendid tunics, and close-fitting hose,
with a fur mantle of the latest fashion.  The tunics
were slashed, and one was made of large stripes of
orange tawny satin and delicate grey, with rich ruby
velvet, and slashed at the shoulders, elbows, and across
the chest, while the hose were also made in large stripes,
but of white and pale lemon-coloured satin; rich Cordovan
leathern slippers of crimson colour protecting and
adorning his feet.  This suit was for wearing after the
tournament the first day.  The other suit was equally
magnificent; for those who took part in the tilt were
dispensed from wearing the livery of the Captain of
the Wight for that day.

He had received by an unknown hand, a tiny silk
glove, and a little scrap of paper, on which was
written in a very scrawling hand,--

   |  "An ye ware thys, ye last course ynne,
   |  Ye shall eke lyfe and honour winne."
   |

This was brought him by Humphrey, wrapped up
in a little packet.  It had been left for Ralph by a
man who was unknown at the castle, but was believed
to live at the back of the island, and to be a fisherman.
He had been loitering about for some days past, and
had latterly been accompanied by another man, who
was also believed to be a fisherman, and who used to
live at Wodyton, some years back.  Ralph had been
surprised at the enclosure, and still more so at the
legend, and had secretly determined he would put the
glove in his helmet before the last course, and see
what would come of it.  He had not yet received any
favour from his cousin, and felt very moody and
disconsolate in consequence.

As the boys were walking round admiring the
arrangements, the light of the early sun falling on the
eastern walls, towers, and battlements of the grand
old castle, while the blue mist still hung over the
valley, hiding the town of Carisbrooke, out of which
the fine tower of the Priory church or chapel stood up
like a tall rock in some grey lone sea, a varlet came out
of the postern gate and called to Ralph Lisle to come
into the castle-yard, where he was wanted immediately.

Ralph and Dicky Cheke followed hastily, and as
they turned the corner by the well-house they saw,
standing in the full light of the sun, a splendid horse,
held by a groom in the livery and wearing the badge
of the Lord of Briddlesford, Sir William de Lisle.

As Ralph drew near, the man held up a note, saying
to Ralph, to whom he was well known,--

"My young mistress, the Lady Yolande, sends you
this, with my lord's leave.  'Tis a well-trained horse,
if ever there was one, and hath borne one in tilt
and tourney, whom I'd like well enough to see here
again.  But as that mayn't be, and you bear the
name of Lisle, you are to ride him; he's yours for
the day--and maybe for ever."

Ralph was utterly surprised.  He took the note
mechanically, opened it, and read it.  It was from
Yolande, and said that as she could not give Ralph
her favour, which he would see worn elsewhere, she
had sent him the best thing she could for him to
win it.  She deeply deplored the accident to Black
Tom, and hoped White Will would make up in some
slight way for the disappointment he had suffered.
The horse had belonged to her half-brother, and was
well used to his work.  "Therefore," she added, "ride
boldly, as I know you will, and fear not to press
the horse, for 'tis your own Good luck--your loving
cousin--YOLANDE."

Ralph's joy was boundless.  He instantly vaulted
on to the noble animal, and rode him round the yard,
to the admiration of every one, excepting Bowerman
and Newenhall, the former of whom looked on with
scowling brow and sneering mouth; the latter in
blank stolidity.

"I sha'n't be able to do for him to-day," muttered
Bowerman; "but to-morrow, in the fight with axes
and hand-strokes, I can do somewhat."

"But you are not allowed to take part in it,
Bowerman," said Willie.

"Gammon!  I'll do it somehow, trust me," answered
Bowerman fiercely.

While the pages were having their breakfast, they
talked of nothing but the tournament, and who were
coming.

Bowerman and Newenhall, from their superior age
and knowledge of the island, as well as from having
seen a tournament before at London, when Lord
Woodville had been one of the challengers, were able
to lay down the law upon all points connected with
the tilt; and Dicky Cheke, who prided himself on his
great acquirements, was rather quenched.

"And the two Bretons will have two other knights
to join them," Bowerman was saying.  "There's Sir
Richard Cornwall, a very valiant knight, and much
skilled in tilts and jousts; but who the other is no
one knows, but I have a good guess--leastways, he is
sure to be brave, and well skilled in warlike feats."

"Well, then," said Dicky Cheke, "let's see who there
is for us.  There's my brother, he'll be a good one;
then there's Sir John Keineys, he who married old
Hackett's daughter, of Knighton Gorges."

"What do you know of Knighton Gorges?" broke
in Bowerman.  "You hold your tongue, and listen to
your betters.  There's Keineys, and John Meaux, and
John Leigh of Landgard, Tichborne from Lemerston,
young Trenchard from Shalfleet, old Jack-in-Harness's
nephew, Will Bruyn from Affeton, and Dick Oglander.
They are all fair enough, but I wish they were better
trained.  They've all got rusty since these peaceful
times have come."

"You've forgotten Dineley of Woolverton; and I
hear old Bremshot of Gatecombe has sent over to young
Dudley, who married his daughter; and there's--"

"Oh, you have done!" broke in Bowerman angrily.
"You're always talking, and get hold of the wrong
end of the story, and--"

"He doesn't," said Maurice; "and he knows as
much of the island as you do, and more, too--"

"Ay, marry, do I!  And what's more, before ever
your beggarly family came here, the Chekes of
Mottestone were lords of Mottestone for more than
a hundred years--"

A blow from Bowerman was the rejoinder to this
remark, which Dicky foresaw, and avoided by ducking
under the table, while Maurice and Ralph interposed
to prevent any further quarrelling.

"And when do we ride our courses, Bowerman?"
said Ralph, always ready to receive information, and
totally devoid of all personal vanity.

"Oh, you'll know soon enough; leastways, yours'll
come after mine, and then you'll find out."

It was now but an hour and a half before the tilt
would begin.  The two boys who were to act as pages
to Lord Woodville hastened to dress, and attend upon
him.  It appeared he was not going to tilt, but would
act as judge and umpire with Sir John Trenchard and
Sir Nicholas Wadham.[*]


[*] Afterwards Captain of the Isle of Wight under Henry
VII. and Henry VIII.


The three pages who were going to take part in
the tilt went to get ready also, and were carefully
instructed in their duties by Tom o' Kingston.

The space around the lists was becoming crowded.
There was no more popular amusement than a tourney,
and as the arrangements were very costly, they
did not very often occur in the provinces.  But in a
garrison like that of Carisbroke Castle, there was
always to be found some one who would share in the
expense, and earn popularity and experience at the
same time.

There was a greater amount of interest than usual
on this occasion, because there was something
international in the contest, and it was known that several
of the island gentry were going to take part in it.

Punctually at a quarter to eleven the sergeant-at-arms
and a body of men-at-arms drew up in front of
the apartments of the Captain of the Wight.  Another
company of mounted archers followed, and drew up
on their left.  Then came four trumpeters, splendidly
attired in tabards, blazoned with Lord Woodville's
coat-of-arms, and another body of mounted archers
followed, succeeded by a squadron of men-at-arms, who
all formed to the left of the first detachment.  The
three knights-challengers now came out of the dining-hall,
armed *cap-à-pié*, and looking splendid in their
gleaming tilting armour.  Each knight was distinguished
by his shield-of-arms, slung round his neck,
and hanging over his left shoulder, and his crest
proudly surmounting his tilting helm.  Their esquires
were waiting outside, and their varlets were leading
their horses, armed with complete body armour, and
gorgeously caparisoned, up and down.  The fourth
knight had not yet appeared.

As each knight mounted, there was a flourish of
trumpets from the four trumpeters; and as he settled
himself in the saddle, and took the heavy tilting-lance,
richly painted and gilded, into his mailed hand,
the war-horse reared and pranced, and shook its
crested head, as if proud of the noble sport awaiting it.

When the three knights were on horseback, they
drew up in front of the trumpeters, attended by their
esquires and varlets on foot, all splendidly attired.

The Captain of the Wight had invited the chief
families of the island, and the most important of the
official world, represented by the Bailiffs of the three
boroughs of Newport, Newtown or Frencheville, and
Yarmouth, and the Bailiffs of the various ecclesiastical
bodies who held land in the island--such as the
Priory of Christchurch, the Monastery of Whoreley,
and of Winchester College--but the Abbot of Quarr
took precedence over all the other ecclesiastics who
had been invited, although scarcely any came.  In
fact, the Abbot ranked next to the Captain of the
Wight in insular precedence.

Among the ladies who looked down from the oriel
window of the Captain's apartments, the lovely face
of Yolande de Lisle could be seen, and the faces of
several other well-known Isle of Wight ladies.

But as soon as the knights-challengers were mounted,
there was a general scramble of the guests to get good
places in the stand erected for their benefit.  Yolande,
however, had been asked by the knights-challengers
to give away the prizes, and act as queen of the tourney,
she therefore stayed to be escorted in state with
the Captain of the Wight, who was to conduct her to
her throne.

And now it was the turn of the Lord Woodville and
the judges of the jousts to take up their position in the
pageant.  Preceded by two gorgeously-dressed yeomen
of his household, carrying silver-gilt halberds, the
Captain of the Wight took the hand of Yolande, and
led her to the hall, followed by her two maids-of-honour,
who also belonged to leading island families,
and were chosen by Mistress Lisle--one was a niece
of Sir John Trenchard, the other a daughter of Master
Keineys, of Yaverland.  Sir John Trenchard and Sir
Nicholas Wadham followed, with Dicky Cheke and
Maurice Woodville in immediate attendance on the
Lord Woodville.

The appearance of the Captain of the Wight and
the Queen of the Tournament was greeted by a
prolonged flourish.  Their horses were in waiting.  Lord
Woodville placed Yolande on her palfrey, and then
mounted himself, his nephew holding his stirrup for him.

When all were mounted, the trumpets gave another
flourish.  The squadron wheeled to the right.  The
two leading detachments marched towards the great
west gateway, the trumpeters followed, then the three
knights-challengers fell in, with their varlets and
esquires, succeeded by the Captain of the Wight,
riding beside Yolande, attended by the other Judges
and their escort, and then the remaining two squadrons
of archers and men-at-arms closed in the procession.

The cavalcade rode round over the drawbridge and
under the north walls of the castle to the rising ground
which led up to the place of arms, not yet closed in,
or forming part of the castle, as it subsequently did
in Elizabeth's reign.

As they approached the lists, they were greeted
with loud shouts from the people, who had now
assembled in crowds.

Mounted archers kept the ground, and yeomen in
liveries, and armed with partisans, surrounded the lists.

All those who were seated in the pavilion rose as
Lord Woodville approached.  Lifting Yolande off
her horse, he handed her to her throne, which was
proclaimed by three prolonged blasts of the trumpets.
The Captain of the Wight then took his own seat,
after bowing to the assembled gentry and people.

The knights-challengers had meanwhile ridden
slowly into the lists, and after pacing round them,
had halted at the further end, having previously
saluted the Captain of the Wight, the Queen of the
day, and the Judges.

All was now ready.  But another ceremony--for it
was an age which dearly loved ceremonies--had to be
gone through.

First of all the herald belonging to the household of
Lord Woodville entered the lists and read out in a
loud voice the licence for holding the tournament; then
he read over the names of three of the knights-challengers,
simply describing the fourth knight "as a
right hardie and worshipful knight."  After which he
proclaimed the rules of the jousts.  The most
important of which were, that whoever was unhorsed or
disarmed was to be considered vanquished, and that
no one, by deed, word, or sign, was to interfere with
the jousts.

Meanwhile the knights and esquires who were to
encounter the knights-challengers had collected at
the other end of the lists, and after riding round and
saluting their antagonists, and the Judges, had taken
up their position outside the lists, at the opposite end
to that of their opponents.





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.. _`HOW THE COCKEREL USED HIS SPURS`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE COCKEREL USED HIS SPURS.

.. vspace:: 2

As the tilt which was now about to take place was
merely a friendly display of knightly prowess,
and "for the honour of ladies and their delectation,"
the knights were to encounter with blunted lances
and swords.  The Marshal of the Lists having
examined the arms, all who were in the enclosure were
ordered out, and the knights only awaited the signal
to begin.

Each knight was to ride three courses separately
with his antagonist, and then three courses again
afterwards.

There was now a lull in the busy hum of conversation
that had been going on in the large crowd.
Every one was on tip-toe of expectation to see the
two knights who were first to encounter.

There they sat erect, a little in front of their
comrades, their lances upright, the steel-clad figures
stiff and immovable on their gorgeously-trapped
horses.  Not a movement could be seen in one or
the other, only their pennons flickered in the light
air, and the lambrequin or slashed cloth mantling of
their helmets blew out from time to time.

As the names of the knights and esquires who were
going to take part in the tilting had been affixed in
the market-place of Newport, as well as on the gate
of Carisbrooke Castle, for some days past, together
with their coats-of-arms, the people all knew who was
who.

"That's the sturdy Breton knight at that end, him
in the white tabard, with the gold dragon on his
breast," said a stout yeoman, who was one of a group
of several men round a fair and buxom dame, whom
Tom o' Kingston, being on duty, could only ogle from
under his visor, and who was no other than the
irresistible Polly Bremskete.

"And who's that at the other end; he looks a tough
wight?"

"What, him in the gold coat and a green lion with
a forked tail?  That's young Sir John Dudley, him
as married Mistress Bremshott up to Gatcombe."

"Marry! now who'd have thought such a small man
would have looked so big.  'Tis the armour
surely--how it do swell them out."

"Hush! they're going to begin."

The trumpets gave a flourish.  The Marshal, after
a pause, called out in a loud voice,--

"*Laissez aller!*"

At the first sound of the trumpet the two knights had
brought their lances to the rest with a simultaneous
and graceful sweep, causing the gay pennons to flash
in the sun, they then remained motionless as before.

At the last word, they clapped spurs to their horses
and rode straight for each other, bending their heads
low down, leaning well forward, and covering
themselves with their shields.

"Lord! what a crack!" cried Mistress Bremskete,
in admiration.

"He's off! he's off!"

"No, that he bean't."

"He was parlous nigh anyway!  I lay a yard o'
broadcloth he'll be off next bout.  But 'twas well
done, leastways: that's what I will say."

The two knights had met with a violent splintering
of spears in the midst of the lists.  The Breton seemed
never to feel the shock at all, for he rode on, tossing
away the broken handle of his lance, after waving it
aloft in the air.  But the English knight reeled in his
saddle; only he recovered himself directly, and rode
up to the other end of the lists, where he turned,
reined in his horse, and waited for his esquire to
bring him another lance.

The trumpet sounded.  The herald shouted,--"Well
done, noble knights; remember the brave deeds of your
ancestors.  The ladies' eyes are upon you."

When the knights had received new lances, they
once more awaited the signal.  It soon came, and
again the gleaming figures met in the rude shock.
This time Sir John Dudley's lance struck the helmet
of his opponent, and carried away the crest and part
of the lambrequin, while the Breton knight's lance
glanced off the ridged breast-plate, and, passing under
the arm, the guard struck full against the cuirass of
Sir John Dudley, and the two knights were both
nearly unseated.  Had they not been practised riders,
and reined in their horses at the same moment,
they must have fallen.  As it was, they remained
locked together for a moment, and so stood until
the herald called out,--"Enough! 'tis well done;
unloose."

They then disengaged, and rode back to their own
end of the lists, amid the shouts of applause of the
populace, and the music of the trumpeters.

"They are right skilful knights!  I don't know as
I ever saw better," said Tom o' Kingston to Humphrey,
who stood near him holding a spare lance for his young
master.  "But there they go again.  Holy Thomas! but
he's off; good lack, I am parlous grieved.  I
would it had been the other."

A groan and shout of applause mingled together,
while a dull thud and clang of metal falling,
announced that one of the knights had been thrown.

"Marry, I am sorry 'tis poor young Sir John; and
there's his wife looking on now!  Well, 'tis a pity, to
be sure," said Mistress Bremskete.

"Ay, but she takes it mighty comfortable anyway.
See how she's laughing with the Lord Abbot of Quarr
there."

"Well then she hadn't ought, that's what I say,
Look! they're picking of him up.  Alack, poor man,
how he do bleed!  'Tis from the mouth, seemingly.
Well-a-day! well-a-day! but 'twas a rude knock."

And so amid the plaudits of the crowd and the
clarion blasts of the trumpets, the Breton knight
returned to his end of the list, and took his station
next the last of the challengers, receiving their
congratulations as he rode up, while his luckless antagonist
was helped out of the lists, to be attended to in the
tent set aside for the reception of those wounded in
the tilt.

The next knight who rode out from the challengers'
end was Sir Amand de la Roche Guemené.  As he
took up his place, he turned towards Yolande and
bowed low to his saddle-bow.

"Why, he's wearing the same colours she's got on!
Well, to be sure, that's a merry jest!  Can't she find
among all our island gentry one to her taste, but she
must go giving away her favours to them jackanapes
Frenchmen?  But 'tis ever the way with your high-born
wenches; they always goes after what's strange,
never mind how ugly it be, if only it be something
new.  It all comes of so many running after them."

"Then, Mistress Bremskete, you ought to like those
Breton gents, seeing the many suitors you have," said
the ready yeoman by her side, with a knowing leer,
giving his buxom companion a nudge with his elbow.

"Go along with ye, Master Paxhulle! you're always
fooling us poor wenches with your soft tongue."

"I'll have to trounce that Paxhulle, I see," said Tom
o' Kingston savagely, to Humphrey, upon whom the
merry glance of Mistress Bremskete, and the leer of
her companion, were in no way lost.

"I say, that's Sir John's nephew there.  I do hope
he'll do well!  'Tis a nice youth; but they're all too
young, to my mind.  These Breton knights have been
well tried in many tilts, and are tough and skilled.
But there they go!  Good luck go with him--ah!--'Twas
well done!  He's a brave youth."

After splintering their lances without any further
damage, the two cavaliers cantered on to the end of
the lists, wheeled round and faced each other, taking
the fresh lances handed them by their esquires.

Whether it were that young Trenchard really bore
himself with greater skill and address, or that his
antagonist, out of knightly courtesy to the trusty
friend of his host, the Captain of the Wight, forebore
to use all his skill and strength, it happened that the
three courses were ridden without any mishap beyond
a plentiful splintering of lancewood, and a rending of
knightly finery.

Sir John Trenchard was evidently pleased, and
accepted the congratulations of Lord Woodville and
Mistress Lisle with but half-dissembled satisfaction.

"'Tis a good lad, and will do well," he said, "an
the ladies spoil him not; for he is comely, and of fair
manners."

The next knight to ride out from the challengers'
end was Sir Richard Cornwall, a very powerful, strong
knight in magnificent armour.  His appearance was
greeted with a hum of applause.

"Now, that's what I call a hardy knight, and something
like a man.  None of your little jackanapes of
Frenchmen and raw youth.  Look at his bone--look
at his breadth of chest.  'Tis a pity he's an overrun."

"But 'tis a strong man he's got against him.  'Tis
Master Meaux o' Kingston."

"Marry! that's right.  'Tis a good Island name, and
he's a stout Island gentleman, too.  'Twill be a rare
tussle."

The words of caution were given.  The order to go
followed, and the two strong figures on their powerful
horses met in the midst.

There was a shout of applause from every one.  The
two lances flew up into a thousand splinters, the two
horses fell back on their haunches, and the steel-clad
figures, erect and firm, wheeling them round, rode
back for fresh spears.

"'Twill be a marvel an one of them does not get an
ugly knock," said Humphrey.

"Ay, marry will it; they're tough men-at-arms--but
I wish one o' them splinters would hit that
Paxhulle in the eye!" said Tom o' Kingston savagely;
"it 'ud stop his leering for some time."

Once more the signal was given, and this time
something was bound to go.  The shock was tremendous.

"Holy Thomas! he's off! he's down!  Mercy! but
'twas a fine stroke!  Ah! my gay gentleman, but
you're on your back now.  Well done, Master Meaux!
The Island for ever!  A Meaux!  A Meaux!"

The shouts of joy and the braying of the trumpets
were long sustained and hearty.  It was the first
triumph of the popular side, and the enthusiasm was
intense.

Sir Richard Cornwall had been overthrown without
any disgrace to himself.  In such a shock it was clear
that every leather and strap of the horses' harness
would be tried to the uttermost, and the girth of his
saddle breaking, and the poitral also, he was borne
backwards over the crupper to the ground, saddle and
all going with him, and his horse nearly falling over
backwards; for, like the good knight he was, he never
let go of the reins.

"'Twas a pity Master Meaux was not matched
against the Frenchman," said Humphrey.

"Ay; but he'll have to meet him before all's done.
Who's coming now?  Oh, I see, 'tis Master Bruyn.
He won't be o' no account; he's been brought up too
soft," commented Tom o' Kingston.

The first Breton knight now rode out again.  It
looked ominous for the Squire of Affeton.

But as if divining the popular wish, and in no way
desirous of winning fame only at the spear-point, Sir
Alain de Kervignac rode the three courses with great
skill of horsemanship, but little exercise of strength.
And so the Island knight got off scatheless and with
honour.

"He's a right gentle knight that Breton.  He could
have knocked that poor youth all to pieces had he
liked; he's as courteous as he's stout."  And all the
crowd agreed with Master Paxhulle, and shouted their
approval.

There still remained five knights, without counting
Bowerman, Newenhall, and Ralph, who were eager to
try their prowess with the challengers.  The day was
getting on; there did not seem a chance of being able
to finish the courses unless some of the combatants
were disabled in their first tilt.  This became apparent
to the knights-challengers.  They therefore said that
as enough had been done for courtesy and love of the
ladies, and time was getting on, they would now tilt
hardily, and sparing neither man nor horse, and that
as they knew there were some youths among their
antagonists, they gave this notice to prevent their
being hurt.

"The coxcombs," said Bowerman, when this was
announced, "do they think to frighten us away by
words?  They are getting afeard for their cattle; but
I'll do my best," and Ralph Lisle agreed with him
heartily though silently.  Not so thought Newenhall,
and he determined he would willingly miss his turn
when it came, and so let the others get the knocks
instead of himself.

Three other knights also signified their intention of
giving those who were more desirous of the honour
of encountering the challengers than they were, the
priority of place.

These were Sir John Keineys and Masters Dineley
and Leigh, who were all men past the prime of life,
and who had merely entered to support the manhood
of the Island.  Thus only the three pages of the
Captain of the Wight, with Dick Oglander, from Nunwell,
were left; for Master Tichborne, from Lemerston, had
not arrived yet.  Master Bowerman now offered
himself.

He was greeted with applause, for the crowd had
heard the announcement of the challengers, and admired
the pluck of the young aspirants to fame who were left.

Everyone knew that it was the page's first tilt, and
the accident from which he had been suffering,
combined with the pluck he showed in not retiring when
he might easily have done so without loss of honour,
created a strong feeling in his favour.

The Breton knight was loth also to hurt him, and
in their first encounter he hit Bowerman very lightly
on the shield, receiving the lance of his opponent on
his own helmet, from which the last remnant of his
crest was shorn.

"Well done, Master Bowerman, thou'rt upholding
our Island right manfully," called out some of the
bystanders.

The next course was very well ridden also, the lances
splintering, and Bowerman, although reeling from the
shock, kept his seat and rode on to the end.  Elated
by his success, the natural boastfulness of the young
man came out.

"Look to your seat, Sir Breton," he called out
before the last course, "for I mean to topple thee out
of it."

"Beshrew the lad for a braggart!" growled Sir John
Trenchard, scandalised alike at the breach of
etiquette and the boastfulness of the boy.

The Sire de Kervignac said nothing; he only
courteously bowed, and awaited the signal to charge.  It
soon came, and they met as before, but with a different
result.

The Breton knight, as expert as he was brave and
strong, seeing how eager and boastful the young man
was, determined to read him a lesson.  As Bowerman
leant well forward, too much so for a firm seat, instead
of aiming his spear at the page's body, or, indeed,
directing it at all, the Sire de Kervignac struck a
violent blow with the handle or butt-end of his lance
over the lance of his antagonist, beating it down, and
breaking it all to pieces, with the further result that
Bowerman, who was preparing to push with all his
might against the expected resistance of the body of
his opponent, meeting with no obstacle, and drawn
still further over by the blow on his lance, overbalanced
himself, and before he could recover his seat, a rude
knock from the butt-end of his antagonist's spear, as
he rode past, completed his discomfiture, and he fell
headlong to the ground.

"'Twas all his own fault," said Tom o' Kingston.
"The Frenchman never meant to hurt him, and would
have left him alone, had he not been such a braggart.
It ought to do him good."

It was so evident to all the crowd that Bowerman
had drawn this fall upon himself that they applauded
the knight, and had no words of sympathy for the
esquire.

The only antagonist left who had not yet tried his
luck was Ralph Lisle.

"That surely can't be Master Lisle, the new page?"
said Mistress Bremeskete.

"Ay, but 'tis though; he sits stiffly, don't he?"

"And what a size he looks.  He'll be a great knight
one day.  As 'tis, he looks as if he could swallow the
little Frenchman at the other end."

"Marry, you're right, and 'tis a fine horse he's on.
'Twas Mistress Lisle sent him that this morning."

"My! you don't say so!  And she gives her favour
to that French knight, and a horse to her kinsman.
Well, I'd rather be her kinsman.  Leastways, he's
got something."

Ralph's heart was bounding with excitement.  He
tried to remember all the instructions he had received.
He could see Yolande seated amid the beauty and
rank of the Island.  She was looking his way, not at
the knight who wore her favour.  She had bidden him
win it with the horse he bestrode.  His blood rose;
he would do all he could.  He sat his horse with thews
strung tight and nerves braced.

"Are you ready?"

Down came his lance.

"My faith! he looks a gallant knight," said the
Captain of the Wight to Yolande.  "I trust Sir
Amand will spare him."

"I'faith, Sir Captain, I think 'twill be the other
way," said Yolande.  "He's well skilled, I hear, and
as for strength and weight, look at horse and man."

Lord Woodville glanced at Yolande a questioning
glance, and smiled.

"It's no use your smiling like that, my Lord
Woodville.  I know what you are thinking about; but do
you, with your knowledge of the world, think I should
fall in love with a boy?" and Yolande laughed a
scornful laugh.

Lord Woodville made no answer; he only sighed,
and turned to look at the lists.  The last word had
been said.

With vigorous determination in Ralph's bent back,
lance close pressed in rest, and helm well under shield,
the boy went straight for his prize.  He had selected
a heavy lance, seeing how many others had splintered,
and feeling confident in his strength to wield it.
With sure aim he struck the upper part of his antagonist's
visor, and, forcing it up with the violence of
the well-planted blow, he bent the metal back, and,
still keeping his spear jammed in the twisted iron,
while his well-trained horse pressed on with all his
force, Ralph actually pulled the knight backwards out
of his saddle, and tumbled him over to the ground.

The shouts of applause and astonishment were
deafening.  The people jumped, and surged, and
shouted, and waved their caps and handerchiefs in a
perfectly bewildering way.  For some time nothing
could be heard or seen but the hilarious cries and
struggling crowd.  It was with the utmost difficulty
the men-at-arms and yeomen could keep the lists
clear.  Men were crowding forward to shake Ralph's
hand.

.. _`HOW THEY TILTED AT CARISBROOKE`:

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   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
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   :alt: HOW THEY TILTED AT CARISBROOKE.

   HOW THEY TILTED AT CARISBROOKE.

At last order and silence were somewhat restored,
and then it was seen that the Breton knight was on
his legs, and had pulled off his helmet, while blood
was trickling down his face from the sharp edge of
the broken visor having cut his forehead.  In spite of
this, he was loudly praising Ralph, and saying how
glad he was the boy had got the victory.

This made him very popular, and the crowd raised
cheer after cheer for the noble Breton knight and
Master Ralph Lisle.

"There's no older name in the island, and 'tis a
right noble line," said Tom o' Kingston.  "'Tis right
well done, and truly a marvellous feat of arms."

Meanwhile Ralph had ridden round the lists, and
had taken up his place again with perfect modesty
next to Master Meaux, young Trenchard, and Master
Oglander, the only survivors of their party who could
ride again.





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.. _`HOW THE COCKEREL CROWED`:

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   CHAPTER XV.


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   HOW THE COCKEREL CROWED.

.. vspace:: 2

It was yet early in the afternoon, for the last
courses had been finished much more speedily
than was anticipated.

By the laws of the tilt, it was incumbent on the
remaining knights-challengers to meet each one of
the other knights who had not been unhorsed, if they
desired to go on with the joust.  Each of the knights
who was unhorsed was disqualified from taking further
part in that day's tilting.

Sir Alain de Kervignac, therefore, was left to
encounter alone each of the other esquires who survived
from the previous jousting.  The fourth knight-challenger
had not yet appeared.  If he arrived before
his companion was defeated, or before sundown, he
might take part in the tilt.

After a little consultation with his comrades and the
Marshal of the Lists, and a notification from Master
Meaux that he and his companions demanded a completion
of the courses, it was proclaimed that the right
valiant, very hardy, and most illustrious knight, Alain
de Kervignac, would tilt in succession with each of his
opponents.  This was delightful news to the crowd,
and they cheered him vociferously, while the Captain
of the Wight and Yolande sent him their greetings by
the Marshal of the Lists.

It was now a little after four o'clock.  The sun
would not set for another two hours.  The other
challenger might arrive at any moment, and the
chances would then be a little more equal.

Of the assailants of Sir Alain de Kervignac only
two could really be reckoned formidable.  Master
Meaux and Ralph Lisle, from their having already
tilted successfully, as well as from their greater bulk
and weight, were dangerous antagonists; and although
Sir Richard Cornwall had been unhorsed by an unfortunate
accident, yet it was quite sufficiently evident
that Master Meaux was a very formidable man-at-arms;
and as for Ralph, it was abundantly manifest
what he could do, in spite of his youth and inexperience.

While these preliminaries were going on, refreshments
were handed round, and the competitors were
regaling themselves with copious draughts of wine and
hippocras.  But Ralph had only taken a very moderate
draught, having been warned by Sir John Trenchard
not to take much refreshment of any kind while
there was an immediate prospect of more work before
him, as it was likely to unsteady the eye and hand.

Bowerman's mortification at his defeat was rendered
tenfold more bitter by the success of Ralph.  If he
hated him before, his hatred had now become ruthless
and implacable, and being naturally of an ungovernable
disposition, he became utterly reckless of how he
expressed or concealed his rage.

The all-engrossing thought was how could he injure
this swaggering upstart, this minion of fortune, this
stripling successful only because of the favouritism of
his antagonist?

"Don't tell me," said Bowerman fiercely to the
stolid Newenhall, for the twentieth time, "don't tell
me that it was not all thought on beforehand.  That
giddy Yolande had got the Breton jackanapes, when
she gave him her favour, to promise he would be gentle
to her cousin, out of kindness to her family, and then,
of course, he got a fall before that blundering lout.
But he shall have a fall before I've done," he added
savagely.

To all these fierce threats Newenhall only stolidly
grunted, until at last Bowerman's fury, eager for an
object immediately to vent itself upon, turned upon
the luckless Willie, and hitting him a furious blow
with the haft of his broken spear, which he still held
in his hand, "Pig's Eyes" was knocked off his horse,
to the great delight of the bystanders.

"You egg, you, why don't you answer sensibly instead
of grunting?" said Bowerman, as he struck Newenhall.

Somewhat refreshed by this exhibition of his
superiority, for "Pig's Eyes" was too much bumped by
his clanging armour, and felt too dispirited, to retaliate,
Bowerman sat on his horse amid the crowd that had
gradually encroached upon the space round the lists,
outside of which those knights who were disqualified
from taking further part in the jousts were standing,
or sitting on their horses.

There was a decided movement of the crowd going
on, and the heads of the people near the tent set
apart for the knights-challengers' use, were all turned
towards the pavilion.

Bowerman turned also to see what was passing.
All he could see was the head of a tall man, half
concealed under the folds of a voluminous hood which
he wore, not unlike that worn by the jesters of the
time, and very raggedly dressed.  A common man,
looking like a sailor, but of very powerful build, and
with a swaggering expression of utterly reckless
daring, was leading after him a horse, big-boned and
vicious looking, and which bit at the crowd as it was
led among them.  On the horse's back was tied a
large bundle, and two very strong lances were carried
by another man of nearly as truculent appearance as
that of his fellow.  They were both armed with stout
bills, bows and arrows, and axes stuck in broad
leathern belts, strapped round their cowhide jerkins,
which were undressed, and with the hair still adhering
in several places.

The men forced their way up to the gate which led
into the railed-off enclosure round the challengers'
pavilion, and which was decorated with the four
banners and shields of arms of the knights, excepting
that the shield and banner of the fourth knight were
perfectly plain, with no blazon on them.  Arrived at the
entrance, the leading man spoke a few words to the
yeoman on guard, who looked very much astonished, and
after eyeing the ragged individual suspiciously,
remained erect and firm before the entrance, but beckoned
to one of his comrades to come and speak with him.

The result of their conference was that this latter
went off, and in a few minutes returned with the
Marshal and Herald.

The ragged man awaited them with perfect
composure, and while they were looking at him curiously,
he saluted them with easy confidence, and handed
the Herald a paper.

This official opened it, and scrutinised it carefully.
He then in an amazed way handed it to the Marshal,
who read it over very carefully also.  This done, they
conferred for a few moments apart, and then the
Marshal said gravely,--

"Sir, will it please you to enter?  The jousts are
not yet over."

The ragged man bowed to the official ceremoniously,
and bid the varlets who followed him lead the
horse into the enclosure, which he also entered, and
disappeared in the tent.

"'Tis the packhorse and baggage of the unknown
knight," said one of the bystanders.

"Well, to be sure, but he do have odd varlets! and
'tis a shabby turn out."

"But where's the knight?" asked another.

"Oh, he's follering, surely!"

"Then he'd best look sharp, for there's the Breton
knight going to begin."

All eyes were now turned upon the lists again.

The Marshal and Herald had returned.  After
speaking a few words to the Captain of the Wight,
and handing him a note which the ragged man had
given them, they took up their positions, and once
more proclaimed silence.

The Captain of the Wight unfolded the scrap of paper,
and with evident difficulty read the contents.  His
brow contracted, and a deep flush passed over his face.

"By St Nicholas, but 'tis too bold!  He presumes
over much on my knightly courtesy and the
generosity of my nature," he muttered.

And now the mail-clad figures had taken up their
positions.

The cautioning words came, soon followed by the
order to go, and they rode for each other.  The Breton
well knew the importance of avoiding any catastrophe.
Being a smaller and far lighter cavalier than the heavy
man-at-arms opposed to him, he determined to husband
his strength.  He tilted therefore in such a way
as to receive the least possible shock from his
antagonist's spear, while he was little careful of doing him
any harm, so long only as he maintained his own seat.

Being very skilful, Sir Alain de Kervignac attained
his object completely, riding rather wide of the barrier,
and so receiving the lance thrust of his adversary more
athwart than directly on his breastplate.

The first two courses were ridden with no damage
to either, but in the last one the Breton was struck so
fiercely by Master Meaux that a part of his vambrace
was bent back, and had it not broken off he must have
been unhorsed; as it was, he recovered his seat to the
admiration of every one, and rode back to the end of
the lists, waving his spear aloft.

It was now young Trenchard's turn.  No scruples
of courtesy interfered any longer: the Breton was
tilting for honour and to win the prize.

Changing his tactics, he charged the young man
with fierce ardour, and the poor youth was hurled
backwards over the crupper.

"Alack, poor lad!" said Mistress Bremeskete, "but
he did right manfully."

"Now, surely that weakly Master Oglander will
never try his luck?"

But it seemed otherwise, for he rode out to take up
his position.

At this moment there was a loud murmur from the
crowd.  Shouts of derision and astonishment were
heard on all sides.

"Mercy on us, what a rusty suit of armour!
Surely he might have spent a little more money on
his outside!" said one.

"'Tis one he's fished out o' the sea, and forgot to
scrape the whelks off!" cried another.

"But he's surely no knight--only a poor hobbler,"
said Humphrey.

"Nay, he's a knight, sure enough; look at his gold
spurs, and the collar round his neck--why, 'tis the 'suns'
of York.  He'd best be well befriended if he wears
that; who can he be?" said Tom o' Kingston, eyeing
the martial figure, firm seat, and knightly bearing of
the new-comer, who, in spite of his somewhat old
armour, which had been furbished up as brightly as
possible, but which long use and many rough campaigns
had soiled with rust and dints beyond all the
labour of a diligent esquire to eradicate, looked every
inch a tough man-at-arms.

"'Tis a powerful vicious-looking beast he rides, too; but
where can he have come from?  I never saw him go into
the tent.  The only man as I see go in was that mountebank
sort of chap in that old hood," said Humphrey.

"Well, 'tis a parlous strange matter!  We shall see
something though," answered Tom o' Kingston.

One of the sailor-looking men accompanied him, carrying
another strong spear.  The other man had gone into
the crowd again, and soon returned leading a girl by the
hand; and, elbowing his way to the front, he secured a
good position for his young companion and himself
close to the lists, and not far from the Judges' gallery.

"Why, Lord Captain," said Yolande, "there's the
little damsel with the large eyes we met at
Appuldurcombe Priory."

Lord Woodville looked in the direction indicated,
and was immediately moved in the same unaccountable
way he had been at the time when he first saw her.  "The
same eyes, the very same eyes and brow," he murmured.

The "Rusty Knight," as the crowd called him,
cantered to the end of the lists, saluted his
companions, to whom he was apparently quite unknown,
and also bowed gravely to the Captain of the Wight.
He was entirely encased in armour, and the heavy
tilting helmet hid his head and face completely.

Sir Alain de Kervignac was just preparing to tilt
with young Oglander when the "Rusty Knight" entered
the lists.  He saluted the new comer, and offered him
his place, which "he of the rusty armour" declined.

"Don't be rough on weakly Johnny," called out
some of the crowd, as they saw the Breton prepare
to charge him, but their kindly remonstrances were
of little use, beyond serving to unnerve the youth they
were intended to aid.  His spear feebly struck the
shield of his antagonist, while at the same time he
received that of the Sire de Kervignac on his helmet,
and was unseated immediately.

It was now Ralph's turn, and as he rode out to take
up his place, the interest of the crowd was very great.

"'Tis only 'rusty irons' you've got to tackle, Master
Lisle."

"Hit him where they've been a-scouring the whelks
off of him," called out another; "the iron's sure to be
thin there.  You'll soon skewer him."

"Silence, you caitiffs!" called out the Master of the
Lists, "or I'll have you whipped.  Sergeant, smite one
of those scurvy knaves over the costard."

This produced tranquillity for a short time, and the
increasing excitement helped to keep the crowd quiet.

"Well now, 'tis just like David fighting Goliath!"
cried Mistress Bremeskete, in admiration.

"Maybe," said Master Paxhulle; "but Goliath's got
parlous rusty harness; and as for David, we can't see
if he be ruddy or of a fair countenance; besides, I can't
mind that ever they fought a horseback--"

"Nay, marry, what do that matter? we know
Master Lisle's face is ruddy enough inside--"

"Oh, ay!  I don't doubt.  We's mostly ruddy inside,
but David was ruddy outside."

"Marry! and good lack for your poor wits, Master
Paxhulle!  I don't mean his insides, but inside his
helmet--but look at that little damsel with the large
eyes.  What's she doing?"

"Which?  What, that little wench next the
rough-looking varlet there?"

"Ay, that's her--she's making signs to Master
Lisle surely."

"Well, now, so it seems.  But he don't take no notice."

"What a state she is getting in! she'll begin crying
soon.  Poor little thing, be there no one to notice it
for her?"

"Why, you see, Master Lisle is that cased in in his iron
harness he couldn't see Bevis o' Hampton himself, or
the giant Ascupart neither, if they was i' this crowd,
so how is it likely he'd see a small wench like that?"

"Couldn't you, Master Paxhulle, go and jog his arm?"

"What, and get rapped over the costard by the
Marshal's men?--not I."

"Well then I shall have to ask Master Tom o'
Kingston.  How fine he do look, to be sure, in his
armour."

"Oh, I'll go, Mistress Bremeskete, with right good
will, too, if it's to pleasure you; but what shall I say?"

"Tell him a little maid in the crowd is wishful to
speak with him."

"Well, but I don't know as how that'll do much good.
There's a good many wenches i' the crowd as 'ud like
to speak with so fine a gallant as Master Lisle; but
I'll try, if it's to please you, Mistress Bremeskete."

So saying, with much difficulty Master Paxhulle
forced his way down to the other end of the lists, and
requested one of the yeoman on guard to tell Master
Lisle's varlet that a young wench in the crowd was
making earnest signs to him.

"Tell him," added Master Paxhulle, "she's holding
up a little glove, and waving it at him."

Humphrey was soon after seen speaking to Ralph,
who instantly remembered the note and the enclosure
he had received.

"Give me that glove I gave you to mind for me,
Humphrey," said Ralph.

When he had taken it from his varlet, he looked
in the direction where the little girl was, and waved
the tiny glove in answer; then he bent down his head
so that his esquire could place it in his helmet.  This
done, he sat erect, awaiting the order to charge.  It
was not long in coming.

"Are you ready?"  Down came the spears.  "Are
you ready?  *Laissez aller.*"  And away the two steel-clad
figures sped to meet in the rude shock of the tilt.

"That knight don't mean to get unhorsed yet
awhile," said Tom o' Kingston, who had been
watching him narrowly.

"No, nor he don't mean to do Master Lisle any
harm.  Look how wide he rode, and how lightly he
smote him," said Humphrey.

Bowerman was in a furious passion.

"What do they all mean by letting that upstart have
it all his own way?  Why, that 'Rusty one' could
knock him all to bits an he liked.  What is it that
lets him from doing it?  It is a vile plot to win favour."

But he had no one to listen to him now, for Newenhall,
disgusted at his treatment, had moved away.

Ralph rode his three courses manfully with the
unknown knight.  However hard he strove to unseat his
antagonist, it was quite clear that "the Rusty one," as
the mob called him, did not mean to tilt in earnest
with Ralph.  This evident partiality for the young
favourite of the crowd evoked a feeling of sympathy
for the unknown knight.

"If he's rusty, I can see he's trusty," said Master
Paxhulle, attempting a feeble joke.

"An they didn't make your outside very bright,
you've got a good heart inside, I can see," said
Mistress Bremeskete approvingly.

Fortune seemed now to smile on the assailants, for
in the next course Sir Alain de Kervignac was
unhorsed by the superior weight and freshness of Master
Meaux.  His fall was greeted by loud shouts of
applause, mingled with consoling remarks, such as
"There's no shame to you, Master Breton, you've
done right manfully; a horse and man can't go on
for ever.  Never did knight do better than you've
done."  To all which, Sir Alain, who had mounted
his horse again, bowed his acknowledgments.

Master Meaux and Ralph Lisle were now left to
tilt against the new comer.

"Let Master Meaux tackle him," shouted the crowd.
"You've done enough, Master Lisle."

After a little consultation, it was agreed that the
unknown knight should encounter Master Meaux.
The interest again became very intense.

"'Twill be a tough bout this time, but I'd lay odds
on Master Meaux."

"I dunno, Master Tom, 'tis a big 'oss the other
rides, and he's a good lance.  Ah! he's off.  Body o'
me, what a crash!"

There was a universal shout from the spectators, of
amazement and disappointment.

"The Rusty Knight," as he was ignominiously
called, had entirely changed his tactics, riding closely
along the barrier, and urging his large horse to its
utmost speed.  With helm well down behind his
shield, and his body bent forward, he struck Master
Meaux a fierce blow with his powerful lance; there
was no resisting the vigour of that thrust, and the
weight of horse and man propelling it.  The blow
was aimed at the right shoulder, and blunt as the
spear-point was, it broke through the steel pauldron,
or shoulder-piece, and, driving in the gusset of chain
mail, inflicted a severe wound, carrying the unfortunate
Master Meaux over the saddle backwards.

The success was as complete as it was unexpected.
No one, not even the most experienced knight there,
had any idea that the new comer would have displayed
such skill and enormous strength.  For to unhorse a
man-at-arms of the weight and address of Master
Meaux, required a very great exercise of both qualities.
There now only remained one survivor on each side.
There could be no doubt of the issue, after such an
exhibition of power.

"'Tis the best lance I have seen," said Sir John
Trenchard.

"Ay, he's a stout lance, but I have seen a better,"
said the Captain of the Wight, smiling; "but let us
see what he will do now."

To the astonishment of everyone, the unknown
knight rode the next three courses exactly as he had
previously done in his last encounter with Ralph, only
in the last round he carried off the little glove on the
point of his lance, which fluttered in Ralph's helmet.

As this closed the day's proceedings, the knights who
had taken part in the tilting had now to ride round
the lists, with their faces uncovered, that all might see
who had done bravely.  There was great curiosity
to see the face of the unknown knight, but he, after
having spoken a few words to the Marshal of the Lists,
who communicated with Lord Woodville, did not open
his visor, to the great disappointment of the crowd.

"Certes, 'tis like Sir Launcelot, or Sir Tristram,
when they came among press of knights disguised,"
said Yolande; "I marvel who he is!  Do you know,
Lord Captain?"

"'Tis a custom the laws of the tourney allow," said
the Lord Woodville, "so long as the Herald and the
Judges know; but they are bound to secrecy."

This was a very evasive answer, but it was the only
one Yolande was likely to get.

As the competitors rode round the lists--such of
them, that is, as could appear--there were loud shouts
of applause for the two Breton knights, Master Meaux,
and, above all, for Ralph Lisle.

The strange knight would have received applause,
had not his refusal to comply with the usual custom
created a feeling of resentment in the crowd.

"I don't know but that he bean't as crusty as he is
rusty," said Master Paxhulle.

"Maybe his face isn't that pleasant that we'd be
any the better for seeing it," said Mistress Bremeskete,
with a toss of the head.

As Ralph Lisle passed the place where the little
girl was standing smiling at him with a happy smile,
he looked at her, curious to discover who she could
be, and was startled at seeing in her the same poor
beggar maid whose old father he had befriended at
Thruxton, when he met them as he was flying his
gerfalcon for the first time.

She was holding up the other tiny glove, the fellow
to the one he had worn in his helmet, and which he
did not know he had lost.

"I am so glad," said the little girl, as he rode past.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW THE COCKEREL WAS PETTED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE COCKEREL WAS PETTED.

.. vspace:: 2

Ralph Lisle had now reached the happiest hour
of his life, and, in common with all humanity, he
discovered that no happiness existed without alloy.

As he rode round the lists, somewhat embarrassed
at the shouts of applause with which he was greeted,
the openly expressed opinions of the more matronly
part of the fair sex, and the less public, but scarcely
veiled admiration of the younger members of that
all-powerful half of humanity, Bowerman, who rode
next to him, kept saying, in a tone of intense scorn
and hatred,--

"Certes, Lisle, you are an impudent braggart, an
you take all this balderdash to yourself.  You know
full well you'd never have gotten off as you did had
you not been shamefully favoured."

Ralph felt very angry.  He was deeply mortified,
for he could not help knowing that there was great
truth in the assertion, the power and address of the
unknown knight having been clearly proved in his
joust with Master Meaux.

"You can't say it was by favour I unhorsed the
Sire de la Roche Guemené."

"Ay, but I can, and do.  'Twas that minx of a
cousin of yours who brought that about."

"Bowerman," said Ralph, his face flushing up, and
his mouth working, "if you dare to call my cousin a
minx, I'll beat you to a jelly."

"Marry, will you?  Forsooth, this braggart is growing
apace!  I shall call whom I like what name I
like; and if you think you are going to stop me, you
had better try.  So there, master upstart!" and Bowerman
snapped his fingers in Ralph's face in utter
contempt and malignant defiance.

As they were exchanging these hasty words, they
were passing, on their way out of the lists, the little girl
and her rough attendant.  This latter eyed Bowerman
significantly, and seeing that he did not notice
him, for both Ralph and Bowerman were too heated
with their words to take notice of anyone in the
crowd, the man nudged the leg of the latter as he
passed, and so drew his attention to him.

As soon as Bowerman saw who it was, he changed
colour.

"Hullo, my Trojan, what do you want?" he said,
assuming a careless air.

"Take this, 'twill tell its own tale," said the man,
handing Bowerman a dirty scrap of paper.

Meanwhile Ralph had noticed the little girl, and
seeing how pleased she seemed, he reined up his
horse and spoke to her.

"Well, little maid, and where have you left your
old father?"

An amused expression passed over the child's face,
and her eyes shone with mischief, as she replied,--

"Ah, poor old man!  He's so infirm, think you, as
to be scarce able to walk?  Well, 'twas very kind of
you to lend us your pony, and you will never be sorry
for it."

"Where do you live?" asked Ralph, surprised at her
voice, and trying to remember where he had heard it.

"Why, you know you saw me at Appuldurcombe Priory."

"Marry, so I did, but I was busy with my Lord
Captain then."

"Ay, and with some one else, too.  No marvel you
had no eyes for me."

This was a remark Ralph did not appreciate.

"And what are you doing there?"

"I'm being brought up by the nuns.  But, do you
know, Sister Agnes--'twas she who brought out the
hippocras--has been ill ever since you came?  She did
nothing but sigh and weep, and weep and sigh, from the
time she got in till now.  The only thing that comforts
her is when I am with her, and I ought never to have left
her to-day, only father sent orders for me to come here."

"Why, your poor old father sending orders to the
Prioress of Appuldurcombe! that is a likely tale," said
Ralph, smiling incredulously.

"And who do you think my father is?"

"Why, that poor old beggar whom I put on my
pony, sure enough."

The girl broke out into a merry laugh.

"Like enough, like enough," she said; and then
went on in a different tone,--"So you found the
Hermit of St Catherine's, did you?  'Twas a rare
foggy night, wasn't it?"

"Why, what do you know about that?" cried Ralph,
in astonishment.

But again the only answer was a merry, mischievous
laugh, and before Ralph, who did not like being mystified,
could ask her any more questions, the rough man
who was taking care of her, having finished his
conversation with Bowerman, came up, and led her away,
giving Ralph a peculiar look as he passed.

The crowd had now become a disorganised mob.
The lists were invaded, and children were picking up
the broken splinters of the gaily-painted lances, or
gazing in awe at the fine ladies who were being
escorted from the pavilion.  The great centre of
attraction was the tent of the knights-challengers.
Every one hoped to obtain a glimpse of the mysterious
knight as he came out, but in this they were
disappointed; no one came out except those who
were well known, and at last, after waiting in hopeful
curiosity for some time, the people gave it up, and
went off in search of other amusements.

"Certes, Master Ralph," said Dicky Cheke, who met
that successful youth as he was dismounting in the
courtyard, amid the plaudits of the garrison and the
congratulations of the visitors, who were standing about
waiting for the evening festivities, which would shortly
begin, preluded by a state banquet in the Captain's
hall,--"certes, Master Ralph, you are in luck's way;
but why that should make a little wench in the crowd
pinch my arm, I can't tell.  'Twas the oddest thing!
The little quean asked me if I was your friend.  I stared
at her, and said,--'Ay, marry; but I didn't see that gave
her a right to pinch my arm.'  Whereupon she laughed.
'What are you laughing for?' said I.  'Because you're
such a merry little boy,' said she.  'Grammercy, little
girl,' said I.  Whereupon she began to laugh more than
ever; and I had to say I'd send the leech from the
castle to give her something to stop her going on like
that before she made an end of it; and when she did,
she finished up with,--'Oh, do let me tell you what I
wanted to, before I die of laughing at such a merry little
tom-tit.'  There!  I solemnly declare she called me a
tom-tit, though, certes, I doubt if you'd credit it."

"Well, what's all this about? when are you coming
to the point?" said Ralph.

"Marry! that is just what I said to the little wench,
and she did nothing but laugh.  At last she quieted
down, and said, if I was your friend, I was to be sure
and look after you and Bowerman.  She said she did
not like that boy--fancy Bowerman's joy!  I'll tell
him she called him a boy; and there I agreed with
her.  She seemed to think Bowerman meant to do
you a mischief, and i'faith I shouldn't marvel.  'Twas
he who had something to do with laming Black Tom,
I'll wager; and he's as mad with rage and spite against
you as 'tis possible to be without choking.  I only wish
he would!  So now, young man, I shall look after you.
Don't be down-hearted; I am near you; I'll take care
of you.  But who'd have thought it!  She called me
a tom-tit!  Dicky Cheke a tom-tit!  Richard Cheke,
page-in-waiting to the high and mighty Captain of
the Wight, tom-tit!  Good lack! good lack!"

"Well, 'tis a comfort you'll take care of me, in
sooth," said Ralph, as he went up the narrow winding
stairs to his room, which he shared with Dicky, and
which was next that of Bowerman, at the top of a
turret overlooking the courtyard.

Humphrey followed his young master, and unbuckled
his armour.

"Marry!  Master Ralph, what'll they say down
Thruxton way?"

"'Tis a piece of luck, Humphrey, and I can't claim
any credit in the tilt.  But why do you think that
unknown knight showed me such favour?"

"Beshrew me if I know; but 'tis clear enough he
did let you off.  Well, no matter!  I'faith, all the
better, say I.  You'll be sure to have the ruby ring:
I heard every one say so."

"Do you think I shall have the prize?" cried Ralph,
astonished and delighted.

"Ay, marry, do I!  That rusty one won't have it,
albeit he deserves it.  They always give it to a young
one like you, if they can in reason."

"Well, I almost wish I may not get it," said Ralph
thoughtfully.

"And why, Master Ralph?"

"Because of course I don't deserve it, and 'twill make
Bowerman more jealous of me than ever, and he will
have cause, certes, for saying I have been favoured."

"Oh, never fear him!  You take my advice, and give
him a good trouncing.  You can easily do it, and he'd
be all the better for it.  Not but what he's a spiteful lad;
and 'tisn't only me as thinks he knows more about
Black Tom going lame than he'd like any one to say."

"Have you heard who that knight was?"

"Ay, there's a many as knows.  Some says 'tis
Sir Robert Clifford, him as is a known Yorkist, and
who's been looked for for some time past.  Others
say 'tis my Lord Lovell, who's never been heard of
since Stoke field.  There's some as say even 'tis King
Richard himself, got well of the wounds as laid him
low at Bosworth.  I'faith, there's no end to the tales
they all swear is the truth."

"And what do you think, Humphrey?"

"Well, I doesn't just know what to think; but I'se sure
he be a Yorkist, because of his collar.  But then I can't
think why the Captain didn't have him placed in safe
keeping.  'Twill look ugly at Court, I'm thinking, and
the King won't be best pleased when he hears of it."

By this time Ralph had stripped off all his armour,
and was dressing himself in his gay new suit, which
set off his well-knit, graceful figure to perfection.  As
he finished, and Humphrey was admiring his young
master, the step of somebody ascending the narrow
stairs could be heard, and soon afterwards Bowerman
entered his room and shut his door.

When Ralph came into the hall he was almost
dazzled by the brilliancy of the scene.  He found
himself the centre of attraction, and it would have
been strange if his head had not been a little turned
by the attentions he received.  While standing in the
lower part of the hall, Dicky Cheke, who was now
splendidly dressed, but in the livery of a page, came
up to him with an air of great importance.

"Lisle," he said, in a loud tone, and looking
superciliously at the guests who were talking to Ralph,
"the Lord Captain of the Wight is wishful to
discourse with thee."

This was a high honour; and Ralph, bowing to
the worthy esquire to whom he was talking, followed
Dicky to the dais at the end of the hall, where Sir
Nicholas Wadham was talking to the Sire de Kervignac,
and Yolande was gaily chatting to the Captain
of the Wight and the other Breton knight.  Ralph
felt very shy as he came up, all eyes following his
splendidly-dressed, graceful figure.  He held his
plumed velvet bonnet in his hand, and his wavy
brown hair hung in luxuriant masses on each side
of his frank, boyish face.

Lord Woodville greeted him very kindly.

"My fair esquire," he said, "I am right joyous at thy
gallant bearing.  Thou wilt make a good knight ere
long; and albeit thou hast won thy fame by the favour of
thine adversary, yet thou hast shown to all men how
well thou canst tilt, and what promise there is hereafter."

"*Ma foi!*" said the Sire de la Roche Guemené,
shrugging his shoulders, and smiling; "I vould zat ze
damoiseau had shown me a leetle favour.  It vas a
rude knock he gave me."

"Cousin Ralph," said Yolande, smiling at him with
her sunny, radiant smile, "I am full glad thou art so
puissant a chevalier, and right proud am I that thou
and I bear the same name.  'Tis the noblest name in
the island, and full nobly hast thou held up its fame."

Ralph could only look intensely pleased; he could
not speak a word.  He simply gazed at his cousin
with eyes brimful of admiration and affection.

Seeing his confusion, the Captain of the Wight said,--

"Noble Judges, we are all here now.  To whom shall
we award the prize in this day's tilt?"

Sir Nicholas Wadham gave his opinion in favour
of the unknown knight, but the Captain of the Wight
produced a scrap of paper, part of which was torn off
in which it was declared, on behalf of the unknown
knight, that he tilted for no prize, looking for a higher
guerdon and more deadly tilt a entrance as his reward
hereafter.

"That, then, settles the matter," said Sir John
Trenchard, "for the only other man-at-arms who was
not unhorsed was Master Lisle."

"Then, my noble friends, I may take it that we
all agree the prize belongs to Master Lisle?"

The others assenting, the Captain of the Wight made
a signal to the trumpeters, who gave a prolonged
flourish, after which, amid dead silence, the Captain
briefly declared the opinion of the Court, praising the
courtesy and generosity of the Breton nobles, and
significantly declaring that "he knew all men there were
right wishful to requite courtesy by courtesy, and
would fain send back over the seas such a goodly
company as would show their Breton kinsmen how
greatly they valued their friendship and good
fellowship against their common enemy of France," a
sentiment which was received with gravity by the
older knights and esquires present, but was
rapturously applauded by the younger men.  After this
Lord Woodville handed to Yolande the ruby ring in
its casket, declaring Ralph Lisle to have duly won it
by his skill and hardy prowess.

There was prolonged cheering as Lord Woodville
finished, and the shouts were deafening as Ralph
knelt down and received the ring from his cousin, who
handed it him with a sweet smile and gentle words.
He took it rapturously, and stammered a few words of
thanks to her, the queen of the tourney, and to the Breton
nobles who had given the prize; and then, before rising
from his knee, he gave it back to his cousin, asking her
to keep it in remembrance of that day, and for his sake.
Yolande took the trinket with evident pleasure, and
a well-feigned air of surprise, thanking Ralph cordially,
who rose from his kneeling position, and was about to
retire, when old Sir William Lisle, who was standing
by, a smile of pleasure softening his grim and
determined features, said,--

"By'r Lady, Ralph, thou art a damoiseau in sooth,
or thou wouldest know there is another prize thou
canst claim, an thou likest, and the guerdon, by all
the laws of the tourney, may not be withholden."

Ralph looked up with a puzzled air, while Yolande
held down her fair head, and pouted with a half-vexed air.

"Nay, father, cousin Ralph knows full well what is
best to be done.  Go, fair cousin, 'tis a custom better
honoured in the breach than the observance."

"Humph!" chuckled Sir William.  "An thou
callest it by that--"

But Lord Woodville hastily interrupted, well
knowing the humour of the old knight.

"Master Lisle," he said, smiling, "Sir William means
that by the laws of the tourney and chivalry the winner
the most laud and guerdon may claim a favour from
the Queen of the Tilt, which she may not refuse.  In
other words thou mayest--"

"Nay, nay, my Lord Captain," broke in Yolande,
"thou hast said enough.  Cousin Ralph, the ceremony
is over," she added hastily, and with a heightened
colour; "thou art keeping all the company from
their converse and pastime."

Ralph stood looking on somewhat abashed, and at
last, making a low bow, and dropping once more on
one knee, he gracefully took his cousin's fair hand,
and imprinted a kiss of respectful love and homage.
Then rising, amid the hum of congratulation from the
company, he retired into the body of the hall.

"Well, times are changed," said Sir Nicholas Wadham;
"I'd never kiss a fair maid's hand if I could
have her lips, and cheek, for the asking or taking."

"Then you are a ruder man than I took you for,
Sir Nicholas, and I shall tell Lady Wadham what you
have said.  I am glad my cousin hath learnt better
ways," said Yolande, tossing her head, and giving Sir
Nicholas a severe look.

The guests were now all assembled, and the banquet
was ready.  A prolonged blast on the silver trumpet
of Lord Woodville's trumpet-major announced the
beginning of the feast, and soon the hum of voices
gave place to the clatter of knives and jingle of
plate.  There was the usual medley of fish, flesh,
and fowl served up in the quaint fashion of the time,
and succeeding each other, with fantastic sweets
intervening, after the mode of the age.  Subtleties
and jellies, baked meats and roast; soups of divers
sorts, and some resembling rather sweet syrups than
the modern soups, rapidly succeeded each other, or
adorned the long tables set down the hall, while
gaily-dressed serving-men and varlets handed the dishes
and washed up the plates, at a large table or dresser
at one end.  In a gallery above, the musicians played
tunes both gay and plaintive, according to the taste of
the age, for fair ladies were supposed to be quite as
much pleased with the sufferings of their knights as
with their valiant deeds, and a gentle knight who
could not suffer becomingly, had not learnt a very
important part of his education in the court of
chivalrous romance.  In the intervals of the music a
jongleur recited the adventures of Sir Tristram and the
fair Yseult, while the jester belonging to the household
of the Captain of the Wight interrupted him from
time to time with broad jokes, dry remarks, or riddles
which he answered himself.

After the banquet, the tables were hastily cleared,
while most of the company adjourned to the castle-yard
and sauntered round the noble quadrangle, where
the soft light of the moon threw quaint shadows down
over the grass and walls of the castle.

The minstrels took up their position on a platform
near the wellhouse, and the gentlemen and ladies
paired off in readiness for the dancing to begin.  The
music soon struck up, and away the couples went in
the stately "Pas de Brabant."

Ralph was standing in a state of dreamy joy watching
the graceful figures of the ladies, before whom
each chevalier bent the knee as he revolved in the
intricacies of the dance.  He was thinking how lucky
he was, and how kind and lovely Yolande looked as
she danced with sweet grace in a set with the Captain
of the Wight for her partner, and the Sire de la Roche
Guemené, with a pretty girl dressed in exquisite taste,
as their *vis-à-vis*.

As Ralph stood looking on, Newenhall came up to him.

"Lisle, there's a young damsel wishes to speak with
thee.  She's outside the main gate, and cannot come
in.  Jock Osborn's sergeant of the guard; he'll let
thee out, an there's any hindrance."

Ralph's thoughts instantly flew to the events of the
tilt.  Somehow this little girl seemed to have a strange
influence on his destiny.

He went to the gate.  The deep shadows of the
huge towers were impenetrable in their opaqueness.
He stepped out of the bright moonlight, his graceful
figure gleaming in its gay attire, and flashing in the
silver light, before he disappeared into the black
shadow.  The guards were keeping but a lazy watch.
He pushed aside the little wicket-gate in the huge
iron-studded door, and stepped out into the blackness,
rendered all the blacker by the brilliancy of the
landscape beyond.  The shadow of the two noble towers
and main ward was thrown clear and distinct across
the drawbridge and road outside, while all beyond
shone and sparkled in the moonbeams.  A silver haze
spread over the valley in the distance, and the sounds
of music and revelry gaily vibrated behind.

Ralph could see no one.  He looked into the shadow
of the great gate.  There was a sound there--a faint
rustle.

"Little maid, is that you?" said Ralph.

A sharp spasm, a burning pain, was the sudden
answer, and Ralph knew no more.

.. _`A SHARP SPASM WAS THE SUDDEN ANSWER`:

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   :alt: A SHARP SPASM WAS THE SUDDEN ANSWER.

   A SHARP SPASM WAS THE SUDDEN ANSWER.

Half a minute after, and Dicky Cheke sprang
through the door.

"Ralph," he cried, "Ralph, come back, 'tis a trap!"
but all he saw was a figure disappearing in the silver
haze over the brow of the steep hill.





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.. _`HOW THEY WERE AT FAULT`:

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   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THEY WERE AT FAULT.

.. vspace:: 2

As Dicky Cheke darted after the figure which
disappeared in the mist, he stumbled over some
obstacle on the ground, and nearly fell.  Recovering
himself hastily, he stooped down to see what it was.
The moon had risen higher, and the black edge of the
shadow of the castle was receding before the silver
light.

"Holy Saints!" gasped Dicky, as he stooped down,
and saw with horror that what had caused him to
tumble was the body of Ralph Lisle, the gleam of his
gay dress plainly telling who it was.  "I have come
too late."

Then springing up, he called to the guard to bring
a light, and run for a leech.  The shouts of the boy
soon brought assistance.  Three archers on guard
hurried out of the gate, carrying a lighted cresset with
them.  By the lurid glare of the smoky light Dicky,
who was kneeling down by his insensible friend, could
see a dark stain marring the rich colours of the tunic,
and a black pool under the right side of the prostrate
boy.

"He's been hard stricken," said one of the men.

"Here's been foul play.  But who'd hurt Master
Lisle?" said another.

"Now, none of your talking," said Dicky.  "Get
some water and cloths."  At the same time he tore
up his fine white linen tabard and laid the pieces over
the small puncture from which the blood was welling
in ominous streams.  "I' faith, the poor lad will bleed
to death, an the leech comes not."

"Here he comes," said the other archer, as a tall
figure in a long fur gown came out of the wicket-gate,
attended by several others, among whom the
weather-beaten face of Sir John Trenchard was visible.

"How's this? how's this?" he inquired peremptorily.
"How came the lad out here?"

No one answered.

"Which of you men was on guard?"

"Please your worship, 'twas my guard," said one of
the men, knowing that Sir John Trenchard would be
sure to find out, and thinking it best to make a virtue
of necessity.

"Then how came this about?" said the Seneschal sternly.

"Marry, Sir John, 'tis more than I know.  'Tis
parlous dark under the gateway, and belike he
slipped out while my back was turned."

"Get you to the guard-room.  There'll be more of
this anon," said Sir John sharply.  Then turning to
the leech, he asked, "Is the boy dead?"

"Nay, Sir John; 'tis a deep wound, but not mortal.
There's no artery severed, as thou mayest see by the
darker colour of the blood.  Had it been of a scarlet
colour, 'twould have been useless for me to come.
The flow is already stayed.  We must get him to his
bed, but that gently."

While the archers were raising Ralph with great
care, Sir John Trenchard closely questioned Dicky
Cheke as to how he came to find Ralph, and elicited
from the page how the mysterious warning had been
given him by the little girl, and how Bowerman had been
designated as cherishing vengeful designs on Ralph.

"Where is Bowerman?" said Sir John Trenchard.

"Nay, I have seen him not," answered Dicky Cheke.

"Bid the pages be called to my apartment," said
Sir John to one of the yeomen who attended on him.
Then turning to Dicky, he said, "And who is this
little wench?"

"I know not, Sir John.  I never saw her before to-day."

"Hast thou any cause to suspect any one?  Thou
mayest speak freely; 'tis a case will have to be
carefully inquired into."

Dicky Cheke hesitated; he had the natural disinclination
all honest, manly natures have to incriminate
any one, or harbour a thought that might do an
injustice to another.  Like all the rest of the garrison,
he strongly suspected that Bowerman was at the bottom
of the cruel trick which had been played on Black
Tom, and he more than mistrusted him in this
present case.

"Well, Master Cheke, hast thou no answer to give?
'Tis a grave matter.  Thou wilt have to answer.  Dost
thou mistrust Eustace Bowerman?"

"Yes, Sir John," said Dicky, slowly and reluctantly.

"Ay, marry, and so do I.  But we shall see anon."

They had now entered the courtyard.  At the sight
of the little procession--the four stalwart men walking
in time, and the pale face of the insensible boy--the
dancers all stopped, and came crowding round; but
at a word from Sir John Trenchard, and a polite
request from the Captain of the Wight to continue their
festivity, the guests resumed their dancing, only
Yolande insisted on going into the hall with her
injured cousin, and old Sir William Lisle attended her.
The leech now carefully examined the wound, and his
verdict was anxiously awaited.

The usual remedies were resorted to for restoring
animation, and, to the joy of Yolande, after a little
quiver of the eyelids, they slowly opened, and Ralph
once more looked upon the world.

The leech, seeing that all immediate danger was
over, and that the hæmorrhage was yielding to the
treatment, directed a bed to be made ready in a room
adjoining the hall, and then dilated upon the
excellencies of his remedies, to the great impatience of
Yolande.

"But, Master Leech, will he get well?  Is it a
dangerous wound?"

"Nay, fair Mistress Lisle, science answereth not
such bold questions as these but with silence.  To
get well is in the hands of God; we can but speak
of how science and medicine knoweth what is the best
course to adopt.  'Tis well known to those admitted
to the occult arcana of the heavenly influences that the
celestial bodies exercise a strange influence on our poor
bodies of clay.  Sol draweth unto him during the day
the blood of our systems, gentle Mater Nox appeaseth
the heat of our sanguine flow, and settleth the blood
in our extremities.  As at the third hour the bile
subsideth, so that its acrid properties be not blended with
the flow of the blood, so also at the second hour the
atrabilis subsides, and in the eventime the phlegm
abateth--"

"Marry, Master Surgeon Barber, thy discourse
causeth my head to buzz.  Tell me plainly an thou
canst, is my cousin in danger of death?"

"Noble lady, to give a short answer becometh not
the dignity of my art.  There are hopes in that chaste
Luna is in the ascendant, and Æsculapius ruleth the
seventh house, that what is natheless a deadly thrust
may yield to my remedies.  But as the learned
Averroes--than whom my old master, the worshipful
Master Thomas Morstede, knew no--"

"Beshrew me, Master Barber, thou wilt drive me
mad!" cried the impatient Yolande.  "Canst thou
not answer me plainly, instead of talking thy
jaw-breaking jargon?"

But the leech or barber was incensed at this want
of respect, especially coming from a young lady, and
he briefly replied he must wait before giving an
opinion until Aldeboran reached the third house.

Compelled to be satisfied with this answer, Yolande
saw her cousin moved to his new couch, and then,
recognising the absolute necessity of not disturbing
him, she returned to the festivities, over which a cloud
had been cast by this strange event.

Meanwhile Sir John Trenchard had gone to his
apartment, and thither Maurice Woodville, Willie
Newenhall and Dicky Cheke followed him.

"Where's Master Bowerman?" inquired the Seneschal.

No one answered.

"Who saw him last?" was the next question.

Newenhall moved uneasily, but looked as stolid as ever.

"Master Newenhall, thou art the eldest; tell me
where you last saw Master Bowerman."

"An it please you, Sir John, 'twas after the banquet
was over."

"Well, where was he?  Was he dancing?"

"He was dancing."

"How long agone was that?"

Newenhall twisted his cap round, and looked more
stupid and vacant than ever.

"Come, Master Newenhall, brush up thy wits and
give a short answer--time presses."

"Maybe 'twas an hour ago," said the page sullenly.

Sir John Trenchard, seeing that Newenhall, either
through stupidity or on purpose, would give no useful
information, turned to Dicky Cheke and bid him
narrate all the circumstances of his finding Ralph.

When he heard of the figure disappearing over the
steep declivity on the other side of the road, Sir John
rated Master Cheke soundly for not having bid one
of the archers pursue him; and in spite of Dicky's
protestations that he was so flurried by the sight of
Ralph's body lying bleeding in the road, as to think
only of helping him, that young gentleman was
severely reprimanded for his absence of mind.

"One who would be a useful knight, and serve his
prince well, should never forget what is the right
course, never mind what may be the obstacles," said
the Seneschal, with stern sententiousness.

Maurice Woodville could give no information; he
had been in close attendance on the Captain of the
Wight, and had not seen Bowerman at all.

Orders were now issued to have the castle searched
for the missing page, but with no result.  He was not
found, and no one had any doubt that it was Eustace
Bowerman who had struck the blow.

The guests all dispersed to their homes soon
afterwards, many of them being accommodated for the
night in the castle as guests of the Captain of the
Wight; among whom Sir William Lisle and his
daughter, with the Abbot of Quarr, were the most
honoured.

The next morning, the first visitor to inquire after
Ralph was his cousin Yolande.  It was joyful news
to her to hear that he had passed a quiet night, and,
although very weak and faint from loss of blood, was
doing well.  No one had as yet questioned him on
the strange accident, and it was still a mystery why
he had gone outside the castle at all.

"'Tis a rare mischance, Maurice," said Dicky Cheke,
as they went downstairs together to begin the duties
of the day; "Ralph might have gotten the prize of
this day's tourney also."

"'Twas Bowerman that dealt the foul stroke," said
Maurice, without heeding the other's remark.  "Where
can he have gotten to?"

"Ay, where indeed?  But he can't escape; I hear
there's orders been sent out to search all boats that
leave the island."

"Marry! why he could have gotten clear off before
the alarm was raised.  They ought to have scoured
the country for him last night, they'd have taken him
then withouten any doubt."

Dicky looked rather foolish.  He remembered how he
had been rated by Sir John Trenchard the night before.

"Dost think Newenhall knows aught of the matter?"

"Humph!" answered Dicky.  "He didn't like
Ralph, and he wouldn't stop any harm coming to
him, but I don't think he's got the pluck to do him
a wrong himself."

"His ways were odd last night.  Didst mark how
he couldn't answer old Jack-in-Harness's questions?"

"Couldn't?  Wouldn't, you mean," said Dicky.  "Ay,
I marked it sure enough.  Well, old Jack's as sharp
as a needle--he'll find it all out."

The conversation was interrupted by their arriving
at the door of their lord's apartment, and being ordered
to enter by the archer on guard.

The account of Ralph Lisle's favourable condition
was joyfully received throughout the garrison, and the
news had already spread to Newport.

"So I hear there was a young lad slain last night
in a drunken brawl after the revels," said the same
rough fisherman who had spoken with Bowerman the
day before, to a countryman whom he met coming
out of Carisbroke.

"Ay, so they say; leastways, if it warn't two or
three as was killed.  Holy Thomas! they castle folk
be a woundy lot of gallants.  They'd as soon kill
each other as the French, so long as there's nought
else to kill."

"Marry, and you're right; but I hear there'll be
blows anon."

"Ay, sayest so?  Well, well; but where away?
All's quiet i' the land, bean't it?

"Seemingly.  But there's them as'll be moving
soon.  They've not done with the White Rose yet.
Howsever, 'tis blows in France as'll soon be going.
'Tis rumoured over t'other side o' the water that our
Captain's a-going over there with a power of men."

"No! you don't say so; and who's he going to fight?"

"Why the French, to be sure; all along o' the
Duke of Bretagne having helped King Henry when
he were in hiding there."

"Then 'tis the King of France as backs the t'other
side--eh?"

"Ay, ay; and another powerful princess."

"Oh! and who's that?"

"Why, 'tis the good Duchess of Burgundy, as was
sister to our brave king, to be sure."

"What, she as I heard say gave that Simnel lad so
much money?  Well, now, she be a kind lady.  But,
i' faith!  I'm sick o' wars.  'Tis the ruin of all our
lives and fortunes; and surely we've had enough i'
the past years."

"Marry! my lad, there's always a picking when
knights are pricking.  'Tis wars makes poor men
rich, and rich men poor, an you only know the way."

"Ay, ay, but you beant as old as I be.  I've
worked on Swainston Manor for a matter o' twenty-four
year come next Lammas.  My lord then were
the great King-maker, as he were called--Old Bear
and Ragged Staff.  And what came to him? why, he
were slain in battle at Barnet field.  Then arter him,
my lord were the Duke of Clarence.  Well what
came to him? why, all along o' being a king's brother,
and not having such a good headpiece as t'other
brother, he were put i' a butt o' Malmsey--so they
sez, leastways--and so were drowned.  And now,
who's my master? why him, poor lad, as they've
got mewed up i' Lunnon Tower.  And all for what? because,
poor lad, he's his father's son, and bears the
name of Warwick, like his grandfather; and like
enough he'll come to a bloody end too."[\*]

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[\*] He was executed for trying to escape from the
Tower with Perkin Warbeck, in 1498.

.. vspace:: 2

"Well, well, I shall be late for the sword strokes an
I stop here.  Are you coming, gaffer?"

"Marry am I.  There'll be a sight worth seeing, I
hear.  Who'll win the prize to-day, think you?"

"Certes, there's not much question.  'Twill be the
stout knight in the plain armour."

"Oh, ay! and who be he?"

"That'll be known soon enough; but come along."

So saying, they walked off to the place of arms,
where the tilting had taken place the previous day.

There was the same concourse of spectators, but
the interest was not nearly so great as it had been
the day before, the hand-to-hand encounter with
swords not affording such opportunities for
spectacular effect as the mounted contests.

However, there were some very fierce encounters,
Sir Alain de Kervignac exchanging several hard
blows with Sir John Dudley, who had recovered
sufficiently to take part in the proceedings.  It was
unfortunate that the only combatants on the assailants'
side who could fight at all on equal terms were
incapacitated by the severe wounds they had received;
and in order to prevent the sport becoming too tame,
permission was given by the Judges to Sir Richard
Cornwall and the unknown knight to meet the two
Breton knights.

That evening Ralph was so much better that Dicky
Cheke and Maurice Woodville were allowed to see
him.  The lively account given of the day's proceedings
by the former young gentleman will describe the
fighting better than a mere narrative of the
sword-strokes exchanged.

"'Tis a pity, Ralph, thou wast not there.  'Twas
rare sport.  Sir Richard Cornwall caught the
Breton--the Sire de Kervignac, I mean--such a crack over
the costard, I thought he had split his skull; but he's
a tough little wight, that he is.  He no more minded
it than if it had been a fleabite.  Up he sprang, and
waving his sword in the air, he brought it down like
a flash of lightning right athwart Sir Richard's sword,
which he held to guard his head; he hit so hard that
he cut it right in two, and then, swinging it round, he
gave him a buffet on the side of his salade--for he
wore a salade and not a burgonnet to-day--that, big
man as Sir Richard Cornwall is, he staggered, so that
I verily bethought me he was going to fall to the
ground, and thou knowest how big a man Sir Richard
is.  And all the while Sir Richard had no sword to
smite in turn; but he made a brave fight of it, for he
rushed out round the barrier and seized the small
Breton in his arms.  Then we did shout; oh, how
I shouted!"

"Yea, and got rapped over the costard for doing
it," said Maurice Woodville.  "And serves you right,
too; I felt quite grieved for thy want of manners."

"Now that is a scurvy tale!  Why, Maurice, thou
knowest thou wast going to shout too, only thy mouth
was so full of apple puff that thou hadst filched from
Polly Bremeskete's basket, which was open as thou
chancest to pass, that thou couldst not make a sound
saving a gruesome, pig-like snort.  Come, that won't do."

"Marry will it.  I did not make a braying jackass
of myself, as thou didst."

"No, because thou hadst already made a pig of
thyself.  But there! 'twill be long ere I finish my
tale, if thou breakest in in this way."

"Then cut it short, Dicky, or, better still, I'll go
on.  Well, Ralph, the Marshal stopped them.  He
bade Sir Richard let go, and said both had done their
devoir full well.  But the best sport of the whole
was when the Rusty Knight--I marvel who he is--tackled
the other Breton--him whom thou toppledst
over, thou knowest.  There was a slashing and rashing!
The sparks flew like the sparks at the armourer's
forge when Tom works the bellows, and at last the
Rusty one smote the Breton so fierce a blow that he
fell to the ground and never moved, and all men
thought him dead.  Then the people shouted, and--"

"Yes! and thou hadst finished thine apple puff
then, so thou shoutedst too," broke in Dicky, who
was fuming and fidgetting at the story being taken
out of his mouth.

"Thou wert told to be still, and not make a noise,
Dicky.  We shall have old Mother Trenchard after
us an thou art not quiet.  Well, as I was saying,
the Rusty Knight having no--"

"You weren't saying it!" broke in Dicky again.
"You were saying--"

"What an egg thou art, Dicky!  Wilt thou be still,
and let me finish?"

"Why, 'twas I who began, and I ought to finish."

But here Lady Trenchard was attracted by the
rising voices, and coming in, bade both the boys
begone.

Placing her cool hand on Ralph's brow, the kind
lady remarked she was glad to see him looking so
well; and then, sitting by his side, she went on with
her work, while she told him, in a more connected
way, the events of the day.

Ralph was relieved to hear that Sir Amand de la
Roche Guemené was not seriously hurt, only stunned
by the terrific blow of his antagonist.

"But who is he, Lady Trenchard?--knowest thou?"

"'Tis a deadly foe to the Lord Captain, for he
openly challenged him to mortal combat," said Lady
Trenchard gravely.

"What! he dared to challenge the Captain of the
Wight?" cried Ralph, in amaze; "and what said he?"

"He accepted his challenge."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW THE RUSTY KNIGHT LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON HIS WRATH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE RUSTY KNIGHT LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON HIS WRATH.

.. vspace:: 2

On the evening of the last day of the jousts, just
as the sun was setting in a blaze of stormy
grandeur, tingeing crag and headland and far-off
swelling down and beetling cliff with fiery glow, two
men were making their way from the steep summit
of the high down above the dark fissure in the cliffs
where Ralph Lisle had so nearly met his death.

"'Vengeance is mine, I will repay,' saith the Lord,"
the older and less active figure was saying to his
companion.

"Maybe, maybe," said the other testily.  "And I
never counted much of disputation, but I know this,
that even in Holy Writ evil-doers were punished, and
made to atone for their wrong-doings."

"But their punishment came not from those who
were wronged.  'Evil shall hunt the wicked man,'
it is true, but it says not we are to be the
instruments of our revenge--and, as I have often-times
told thee, there is not the least proof that
thou hast received any wrong at his hands."

"Man, man, talk not with me thus!" broke in the
other with hot passion.  "She loved him or ever she
saw me--and she hated me from the time she took
me for her lord and master, even if she hated me not
from the time of first seeing me; and when a woman
hateth one and loveth another, and the one is her
husband and the other her--"

"Listen, my son," interrupted the older man in
turn, "and thou wilt learn how little thou reckest of
all he hath done for thee, in his knightly courtesy and
chivalrous forbearance, framing his conduct on the
model of the most noble of Christian champions."

"I will not listen, an thou art going to give him, my
mortal foe, laud and honour.  I have sworn to have
his blood, and his blood I will have, or he mine; and
he hath given me his word he will meet me," added
the speaker, with an evil glitter in his flashing eye.
"So say no more, worthy friend; I know my duty, and
I will do it.  In slaying him, I shall be doing my
devoir to my liege lord, my country, and to my own
honour.  And slay him I will, ere this moon shall
have run her last course, for to this end he hath plighted
his word as a belted knight."

"My son, I have been a knight, as thou well knowest,
and in mine hot youth I also bore a feud against
one who, in sooth, had wronged me.  I slew him, and
albeit there was no question of his evil-doing, yet I
rue me of his blood, and in my lonely orisons I
implore mercy for my blood-guiltiness.  I would fain
spare the lonely hours of sorrow and remorse that will
await thee, if thou livest,--him, if he slay thee.  For
the dolour to him will be great; and as I well know
his knightly heart and gentle and joyous nature, so--"

"Now beshrew me for a soft-hearted chitling an I
hearken to aught more of his laud.  If thou hast no
more but this to say, I will e'en take my leave, holy
father.  The sun is set, and I have matters to hasten
withal."

"Fare thee well then, my son," answered the old
man, with a sigh.  "At least be mindful of thy
daughter; and if evil betide thee, see that as little
as may be befall her, pretty innocent.  But fear not.
As is my bounden duty, all that I know of thy party,
thy plots, and thine hopes is sunk deep in the inmost
chambers of my mind, and thou needst not fear that I
will bewray thee.  I urged but thy duty as a Christian,
and minding well the words, 'Blessed are the
peace-makers.'  Mayhap the time will come soon, sooner
than thou or I know, when thou wilt wish thou hadst
hearkened to the voice of the Lord, through me, and
hadst not hastened thy feet to shed blood.  Farewell,
my son, and fain would I that I could say, with any
hope of its being true, *Pax vobiscum!*"

So saying, the old man turned away, and took the
path, or rather sheep-track, which led over the down
behind him.  When he had climbed some distance up
the steep, wind-shorn slope of brown grass, he paused,
and turned to look over the lovely view behind him.

The sun had set, and storm-clouds were working
up on the horizon.  Above their deep, livid masses a
clear, pale yellow sky, flecked with golden and purple
patches of wind-torn vapour, told of the change that
would shortly come.

The wide-stretching "wine-dark sea" lay far below,
as yet still and glassy, its surface only heaving with
the long swell which rolled into the Channel, telling of
a storm far off in the mysterious deserts of the yet
boundless Atlantic.

The roar of the surf, grinding among the rocks on
that iron-bound coast, surged up to the giddy height
whence the Hermit of St Catherine gazed out to the
west and mused on the monotony of earthly passions,
their dreary recurrence, and how they are blotted out
by death and eternity.

"'Lord, what is man that Thou art mindful of him,
or the son of man that Thou so regardest him?  Man
is but a thing of naught, so soon passeth he away and
he is gone.'  Ay, truly! but Thy word abideth."

And with a weary sigh the old man once more
turned to climb the steep-backed hill.

Meanwhile the other had disappeared over the edge
of the cliff.  A path scarcely to be made out led down
the face of the western wall of the fearful chasm.
Tufts of grass, and a few wind-cropped, stunted bushes,
gave foothold or hand-grasp to the hardy climber.
When he had nearly reached the middle of the chasm,
and was but half-way down, he paused and looked
about him.

"Ay, ay," he muttered, "'tis all right.  They've not
come back yet.  There's the plank, where it ought to be."

The man then climbed down a little further to
where a ledge in the cliff allowed a little more room
to move.  Against the face of the precipice was a
somewhat larger bush of stunted thorn.  Protruding
from underneath its boughs was the end of a plank.
The man drew it out.  It was long and heavy.  With
ease, however, it was drawn to the edge of the little
platform, and balanced for launching out to rest
on the edge of a similar platform in the face of the
opposite precipice.

After swinging the plank backwards and forwards
two or three times, the man at last darted it violently
forwards, and with such vigour and dexterity that it
rested some inches on the opposite ledge.  He then
proceeded to walk steadily across it, and, having
reached the further side, he drew the plank over
after him.  In this way he cut off all access to his
standing-place.  Behind him were a few bushes;
stepping up to the largest of these, he disappeared
behind it.

Had any one been observing him, it would have
seemed that he had vanished into the face of the
cliff, so close did the bush grow, and so bare and
beetling did the face of the rock seem.

But behind the bush was a narrow rent in the cliff,
wide enough to allow one man to pass through, and
opening out inside into a space of sufficient size to
accommodate three or four people.

Striking a light with a flint and steel, the man soon
kindled a fire, the smoke of which, instead of curling
out through the entrance, found its way to the upper
air by some other exit.

Having thrown more fuel on the fire, the man sat
down on a spar, which looked as if it had come from
some wreck, and fell into a deep reverie.

The flickering light fell full upon his face and figure,
showing dark, weather-beaten features, marked with
deep lines, but bearing evidence of a strong will, high
courage, and pride.  His frame was very powerful,
although the rough dress he wore did little to set it
off.  But the sinewy hands and strong neck, combined
with great breadth of chest, showed a man
capable of vast exertion.  In spite of the rude dress,
there was a certain air and look which told at once of
superior position, and any stranger meeting him would
at once have addressed him respectfully, in spite of
his surroundings and attire.

"And so the hermit bids me lay aside thoughts of
revenge," he muttered.  "'Tis easy to say that, when
he himself confessed that he had taken his revenge.
Can I have been mistaken?  Did she not run to him?
The pretty wanton, having made me her sport, she
spread her wings to other lures.  But now he shall
atone for it.  Dead is she?  'Tis all a lie; part of the
false fooling of his wanton wit.  Traitor hath he been
to his party, to his king, and to the cause.  But his
day is over.  Mistrusted by Henry, he will be led
away by his own conceit.  Abandoned by a subtle
and cold-blooded tyrant, he will die on the scaffold,
or on the battlefield, sold to France, to secure his
master's ends, if he die not by my own hand, as I
devoutly pray he may.  And as for me?  What hath
my life been, and what hath been his?  Because I
have been true to my king and cause, I am disinherited
by my father, and am a beggar, a fugitive, and an exile.
Because he hath a fair sister, forsooth, he rises into
favour, then changes sides when he sees which way the
wind blows, abandons his party, and becomes a noble,
a high power in the land, and Captain of the Wight.
But his day will soon be over.  And what hath life
left to offer me?  My father hath cast me off, my
friends are mostly slain, and there are dark rumours
of traitorous practices among such as are left.  The
gold of Henry of Richmond is doing its deadly work.
But there's Simon's voice," he broke off, as a loud
halloo interrupted his sombre thoughts.

Getting up, he went to the door of the cave.  It was
now dark, and no objects could be distinguished in the
depth of that gloomy chasm.  The tide had risen, and
the damp mists from the sea mingled with the spray
which dashed among the fallen boulders far below.
One step, one false move, and the man would have
been dashed to pieces on the rocks beneath.

"Sir Knight, art there?" bawled a gruff voice out
of the blackness opposite.

"Ay, Simon; I'll place the plank anon."

The wind had now risen a little, and whistled and
moaned amid the fissures of the gorge; but above it,
or in lulls of the breeze, the knight thought he heard
sobs.

"Marry, Simon, whom hast thou there?"

"'Tis the little wench, master.  She would come.
I found her on the hill yonder coming from
Appuldurcombe."

"Why, what's come to her?"

But before the man could answer, a tearful voice
called out,--

"Oh, father, they've killed Master Lisle," and then
the sobs broke out in uncontrolled emotion.

"Nay, nay, fair daughter, he is well enough; I
learnt that much before I left the lists."

The plank having now been safely adjusted, two
figures advanced over it, and stepped into the light of
the fire, which gleamed in fitful glimmer out of the
fissure behind the bush.  The childish figure threw
itself into the arms of the stalwart gentleman, crying
out as she did so,--

"Oh, I am glad!  I should have grieved so sadly
had aught evil happened to Master Ralph."

"Humph!  Sweet wench, thou takest over much
thought for the safety of thy young kinsman.  But
'tis a brave lad and a true.  I grieve he should have
suffered harm.  But come in.  Simon, I have heard
news.  I would I could get me to France."

While father and daughter were talking together,
the serving-man, who was the same rough fisherman
who had spoken to Bowerman after the tourney was
over the evening before, had lighted a torch, and was
spreading a simple meal on the top of a chest, which
served for a table.  There was the same strange
mixture of gorgeousness and squalor in the appointments
of the repast as in the food itself.  A richly-chased
silver flagon contained wine, which, from its fragrance
and colour, seemed the very choicest Burgundy.
Coarse bread flanked an enamelled bowl of Limoges
ware which held the butter, stale and rancid from the
time it had been there.  A meat pasty was served in
a pewter dish, while a richly-chased knife was ill
assorted with a wooden trencher.

After they had eaten, the knight and his varlet
talked earnestly for some time.  The young girl sat
apart.  After putting away the remains of the supper,
and washing up the things, she sat down on a chest
near the fire, and seem to pay no heed to the
conversation of the others.

She was a pretty child, with long dark-brown
hair, which waved and strayed from under her little
close-fitting red cap.  Her large soft brown eyes
had a wistful expression in them, and her flexible
mouth, which usually was parted in merry smiles,
or arch fun, was now pursed up in grave thought.
Her face was sunburnt, and her dress simple and
patched.

Suddenly her attention was caught by hearing her
father mention a name she knew.

"Oh, father!" she broke in, unable to master her
suspicions, and her impulsive indignation overcoming
her habitual awe of her father, "I hope they will catch
that Bowerman.  What a base caitiff, to stab his friend
so foully!"

"Marry, little wench, who told thee to speak?"
said her father, stroking the glossy hair.

The child was always in much awe of her father,
and nothing but the hot impulse of her anger would
have made her burst out as she had done.

She now hung her head a little lower, but looking
up shyly after a moment, she said, in a soft, winning
tone,--

"But, father, think of it!  You are noble, and
would never injure your foe save in fair fight and
face to face.  How I wish all this fighting was over,
and there were no such things as foes.  Oh dear,"
she sighed, "I am so tired of it all!"

"Tush, child, you should not have come away
from Appuldurcombe: the sisters should not let you
roam like this."

"'Twasn't their fault, father; I stole out to help John
see to the cows, and then I thought I would come on
over here and see you."

"But, by St George, thou must not play these
pranks, little wench.  Thou hast had too much freedom
by far.  No marvel," he broke off, with a fierce
look of anger, "when thou hast been left to bring
thyself up, with only such care as I can give thee."

"But, father, thou dost not like that Bowerman?"

"Marry, wench, what is that to thee?  He is a
friend to the cause, and, though young, is useful, and
may be more so.  How know I whether he gave the
stroke or not?  Wait till thou knowest before thou
judgest."

"Ay, but I know full well," added the girl, under
her breath, not, however, daring to speak her thoughts
aloud.

At this moment a noise was heard outside.

They all kept quite still, and the fisherman dropped
a sail across the entrance, so as to prevent the
firelight being seen outside.

The noise was repeated.  It sounded like a groan.

"Go, Simon, see what it is," said the knight.

The man passed outside; the other two listened.

A groan, as of some one in pain, could be distinctly
heard, and then a few half-uttered words.

"Who can it be, father?" whispered the girl, drawing
closer to her father.

She was not a timid child, but the strange sounds
in that gloomy chasm recalled the tales she had heard
of the place being haunted.

"'Tis the plaint of some one in dolour," said her
father.

"Simon, ask who it is."

The moaning ceased as the seaman's voice
resounded in the echoing chasm.

"'Tis a water-sprite, my lord, that's what it be,"
said the man, coming in.

"Tush, man! 'tis some one in pain, who hath fallen
over the cliff maybe.  Stay with the child while I go
and see."

Taking the torch in his hand, the knight went to
the entrance, the girl and seaman following him close.

It was a weird scene, as the lurid light of the
flickering torch shone on the wall of rock opposite,
while the inky blackness of the gorge, yawning at
their very feet, caused a shudder to pass through the
child as she thought how near they all were to a
fearful death.

"Holy saints!" a faint voice gasped, in awe-struck
accents; "are these spirits or fiends? and have I
fallen to the bottomless pit?"

"'Tis as I thought," said the knight.  "'Tis some
poor wight fallen down, and, by some marvel, he hath
lighted on the only ledge that could save him.  'Tis
the hand of Providence hath saved him from rolling
into that black pit."  Then he added, in a louder
tone,--"Art hurt, man?  Canst stand upon thy feet?
Who art thou?"

No answer came.  All was silent as the grave.

"Put the plank over, Simon; I will go see who it is."

In a few moments the plank was put across.

"Oh, father, take care!  Maybe 'tis a trap to catch
thee!" cried the girl in terror.

"May be, my lord, 'tis even so," added the seaman;
"best let me go."

"Nay, man, nay; hold the torch while I step across."

So saying, the knight handed the light to his
attendant, and, drawing his sword, stept warily over
the plank.

The other two remained in breathless silence.

"Hold the torch higher," called the knight.

Again there was deathly silence.

"Father! father! what is it?" called the girl.

"I know not; I can see naught--ay, but I can!
Why, my fair master, what mayest thou be doing
here?" added the knight, addressing some one.

Then he called out in a relieved tone,--

"Come here, Simon; 'tis Master Bowerman, and he
hath swooned away."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OF THE PERPLEXITY OF THE LITTLE MAID`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   OF THE PERPLEXITY OF THE LITTLE MAID.

.. vspace:: 2

"Bowerman!" said Magdalen, intensely astonished
as well as relieved; "what could he
have been doing here?"

However, there was no longer any cause for anxiety,
either on the score of her father's safety or from the
vague terrors of superstition.

With considerable difficulty the knight and his
servant carried the senseless esquire over the plank
and into the cave.  On examination, it was found
that the young man had cut his head against some
point of rock in his fall, and had received other
injuries, none of which, however, seemed severe.

"'Twas a marvellous chance," said the knight.

"Ay, truly: but now he's come, he'll be of rare use
to us, an he getteth over this," said the seaman.

"Humph! he was of more use where he was," was
the knight's comment.

Then, looking at his daughter and seeing she was
listening eagerly, he added sharply,--

"Now, child, bestir thyself; get water and bandages,
and give Master Bowerman a cup of wine."

With evident reluctance the girl obeyed her father,
sighing to herself,--"Ah, me! why must my father
take so much concern for this Bowerman, who, I know
full well, tried to kill Master Lisle?"

It was not long before the wounded esquire opened
his eyes and stared round him in amazement.

"Marry, Master Bowerman, thou knowest us not.
Recall thy wits, and bethink thee of what hath
happened," said the knight.

But Bowerman had not yet recovered the full use
of his faculties.

"Newenhall, thou dolt!" he muttered, "what art
cowering here for? why art not a man for once?
The horse will never hurt thee.  There, 'tis
done--ah, he won't ride him for some time," and
Bowerman chuckled mockingly.

"I knew it!  I knew it!" cried the girl; "the cowardly
caitiff.  He hath confessed he lamed Black Tom."

"Silence, wench," said her father sternly.  "Dost
not see the lad raveth?"

Gradually the young man recovered his senses, but
it was some time before he could be made to understand
what had happened.  At last he recognised the
rough seaman, and then he knew who the other man
was.  He would have risen to do him reverence, but
the knight restrained him.

"Nay, Master Bowerman, this is no time for idle
courtesies; I know thy breeding.  Take another
draught of this, and turn thee to sleep; thou canst
talk to-morrow morn, an thou art well enough."

The air of authority with which this was said helped
to pacify the injured man even more than the draught,
and he soon sank into a deep sleep.

The knight now turned to his daughter, and bid her
retire to a recess in the cavern, where a couch, made
of old sails and other lumber, served as a bed,
before which a sail was hung as a curtain.

After the child had disappeared, the two men entered
into a deep conversation in low tones.

"There be a story afloat of a new plot," said the
man.  "But there be naught in it, be there?"

"Maybe there is, but matters are not ripe yet.  An
we could only get Henry embroiled with France, we
should have better help than from the Dowager of
Burgundy.  And I have hopes that he will send a
force to aid the Bretons.  But I can do naught until
I have met Woodville."

"And when will that be, your worship?"

"Not for a few weeks, I fear me.  He hath other matters,
and this attack on his esquire hath put him out."

"Thou wast wondrous kind to the lad at the tilt.
All men marvelled what could be the cause."

"A wish of my daughter's, as thou knowest.  The
lad was passing gentle to us as we came hither; and
he is a good lad, and one of my own house too."

"But he's parlous sweet on Mistress Yolande, and
there's them as says she means to marry him, and old
Sir William is going to make him his heir."

The knight's face grew black.

"Enough! enough!  I would I could get me to
France.  I hear the Lord Daubigny will be returning
shortly.  We must join him at Southampton.  Dan
has got the old boat mended?"

"Ay, ay; she'll do for us as far as Southampton,
or, for that matter, we could make shift over to
Barfleur in her ourselves."

"That's well; and now leave me, I would think
awhile."

The next morning Magdalen was sent back to the
cell at Appuldurcombe, much to her discontent.  Before
she left, however, she had the further dissatisfaction
of learning that Master Bowerman was not only
in a fair way of recovery, but that he so plausibly
accounted for his being in hiding, and having run
away from Carisbrooke Castle, that her father not
only seemed to believe him quite guiltless of the
attack on Ralph Lisle, but even appeared to look
upon him with much favour as an injured man, and
a sufferer by reason of his inclinations towards the
exiled Yorkists.

It was important to make as many friends as possible,
and the Bowermans were likely to become more influential
in the island by reason of their recent alliances.

The story Bowerman gave was, that being outside
the castle on the evening of the first tilt, he had heard
of the mysterious assault on Ralph as he came back,
and well knowing how he would be suspected, and
being also--he could not deny it--disgusted with
the favour shown that fortunate young man, he had
determined to get away.  He had had some previous
relations with the other seaman, who had smuggled
articles into the castle for him, and had been useful
to him in many other ways before; and he had
been already sounded on the subject of the late plot
to annoy the Government, and had entered into
correspondence with the Yorkist secret agents.
Although he knew about the fugitives, he did not know
where they were in hiding, the knight's two retainers
being far too cautious and trusty to betray their secret.
He, however, resolved to remain in concealment until
he could get away, and for that purpose he had come
over to the wildest part of the island, as being the
safest place, and also where he was most likely to
meet with Dan the fisherman.

The account he gave of his accident was, that having
been hard pressed that day by some of the garrison
of Carisbrooke who had been sent out to find him,
he had climbed down the cliff and remained there
until dusk.  Hearing fresh steps, he had tried to get
further round the face of the cliff, and had slipped
on to the ledge where they found him.  That he was
partially stunned, and seeing the light in that awful
place, he had thought they were spirits, and he had
fainted away, as a result of physical exhaustion and
supernatural dread.

It suited the knight's purpose to listen favourably
to this tale, and with an air of belief, and he even
went so far as to sympathise with Master Bowerman
in his wrongs and grievances, and the accident to
Ralph Lisle was never afterwards referred to.

Magdalen, who was allowed very often to see her
father, whose secret appeared fully known to the
Prioress of the little community, and who belonged
to a well-known Yorkist house, was dismayed to
find how very intimate Bowerman had become, and
was still more embarrassed to discover that he was
desirous of ingratiating himself with her.  One
morning, about a month after the tourney, when she
had come over earlier than usual, the girl noticed
a decided stir going on in the little cave.  Armour
was being burnished up, and a couple of stout lances
were being critically examined by her father.  There
was never much effort at keeping matters secret from
Magdalen, and the conversation, or rather few remarks
which fell from her father, were hardly interrupted
by the arrival of the young girl, who brought over
a supply of fresh butter and eggs, with a few other
necessaries.  Magdalen had always to be very careful
when she came near the gorge, lest any stray country
folk should see her.  But this part of the island
was thinly populated, and she had never yet met
with any one.  The Hermit of St Catherine's knew
her secret, and she looked upon the good old man
as one of her best friends.  While she was arranging
the contents of her basket, she heard her father say,--

"Thou wilt see that all is ready, and in case of ill
befalling, I trust to thy bearing this missive to Sir John
Clifford.  Dan will go with thee.  The boat is all ready."

"In sooth, my lord, I will do thy bidding.  But I
fear no mischance.  I have seen myself thy prowess,
and heard more.  He cannot stand before thee for
one course even."

"Humph!  'Tis a good lance, and there are risks
always; but I have my just cause, and I trust in the
right."

"Thou wilt have Dan and Simon there also?"

"Ay, ay.  They can come, and fully equipped, too;
but they must take no part, whate'er betide."

Magdalen noticed a peculiar look in Master Bowerman's
eye, and detected a meaning glance exchanged
between him and the most sinister-looking of the
seamen.

What could they be talking about? she wondered.
She always dreaded some terrible fate befalling her
father.  She knew his stern, fearless disposition, and
she also knew that he nursed the most inveterate
hatred to the Captain of the Wight.  He had never
told her why, but if ever his name were mentioned,
she noticed that he seemed to lose all control over
himself, and would utter the most dreadful maledictions
on his name and family.

"There is going to be some fearful fight, I know
there is," she murmured.  "Oh, if only I could find
out when it takes place and where.  Perhaps Bowerman
would tell me.  He seems to wish to please me;
why, I don't know."

She little knew that if only the Yorkist party, whose
hopes were centred on the imprisoned Earl of Warwick,
could upset the present government, her father
would be a person of great distinction, and she would
be the heiress of the Lisle property.  It was well
worth Bowerman, or any other aspiring youth, doing
all he could to win her favour.  Besides these
substantial worldly advantages, she was a very sweet girl,
with a fair face and noble nature.  Entirely unspoilt
by luxury, and brought up in the severe school of
poverty and hardship, she had often compared herself
to the "Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednall Green,"
and would shyly wonder if her fate would be like
that of "pretty Bessie," and whether her adventures
would end "with joy and delight," and she should
have for a bridegroom "the gentle young knight

   |  "Who lived in great joy and felicitie,
   |  With his fair ladie, dear pretty Bessie."
   |

When she had neatly put all the things away on
some ledges of the cave which served for shelves, she
went to the entrance and looked out.  She noticed
that the old boat, which was usually hidden under a
deep cleft in the rock, out of reach of the highest
tides, was now hauled down, and lying ready for
launching, and that there were sundry kegs and
bundles in it, looking as if there were preparations
for an expedition.

The salt smell of the sea came up fresh and keen
from the tumbling waves below, and the girl looked
wistfully towards the south.

She felt very lonely, more so now than ever, for
her father, always preoccupied before, seemed gloomier
of late, and to notice her less than he used.  There
had been much going to and fro on the part of the
seamen, and Magdalen had herself brought a missive
from the Hermit only the day before, which had
caused a great display of feeling on the part of her
father, a flush of fierce joy passing over his
countenance, as he muttered, after reading the cartel,--

"At last!  Thank the saints! the matter will be
settled once for all."

While Magdalen stood looking down the strange
water-worn chasms, she was startled by hearing
Bowerman say in a scoffing voice, but in an undertone,
to Simon,--

"Marry, Simon, we are to take no part in the fray, eh?"

And then he laughed derisively, while the seaman
added gruffly,--

"Not us!  Well, I never; that be a good 'un.  But
I'll have some of their fine harness and gew-gaws, if
I swing for it."

"Tush, man! thou canst have them easy enough;
but 'tis their lives first we must have.  He's sure to
be there.  He makes such a stir about him; all the
more since this wound of his.  Curse the weak
stroke! why couldn't it have gone home?" broke off the
esquire bitterly.

"Ay, ay, 'twas a bungling business that.  He was
but a greenhorn at that sort of work, whoever he
was," said the seaman, eyeing Bowerman with a grim
twinkle in his bleared eyes, as he went on furbishing
up a steel breastpiece.  "But he's a fine youth, that I
will say," he added.

Magdalen changed her position so as to get a view
of the faces of the speakers, but trying to draw as
little attention to herself as possible.  She noticed a
flush pass over Bowerman's face as he bit his lip, but
said nothing, only he felt the edge of a sword he had
been scouring.

"We'll make better work of it, Simon, this time--eh?"

"Faith we will, or you may call me landlubber for
the rest of my days.  I owe him a grudge for having
had me put in the stocks for nothing at all.  'Tis a
chance will never come again.  Think of his being
such a fool as to trust hisself alone in a fight with
our master.  But he won't live long to repent it, if I
get this knife into him," added the man, with an
ugly "job" of the blade into a balk of timber on
which he was sitting.

Magdalen shuddered.  What were they talking
about?  She dreaded to think.  There was something
terrible going to take place.  How should she
find out?  She resolved to ask her father.  She
stepped past the two men, and entered the cave.  She
found her father busied with the unusual and difficult
operation of writing.  He took no notice of her,
and she sat still by his side, watching him laboriously
forming his awkward letters.

"Father, can't I help you?" she ventured to say
at last.

"What, little wench, you here still?  I thought you
were gone long since.  What will the worthy Prioress
say?"

"Oh, she won't mind; she bid me stay as long as
I could help thee.  But Sister Agnes looks most
after me."

"Ay, and who is Sister Agnes?  But there," seeing
the child was going to enter upon a long account of
her doings at the nunnery, "I am parlous busy now.
Thou canst stay an thou mindest, and in the evening
Bowerman can see thee on thy way home."

This was not at all to Magdalen's taste.

"But may I not aid thee now, father?  Thou
knowest I can write; and I have become a better scribe
lately?"

"Hast thou so, my little wench?" said her father,
stroking her head.  "But these are matters beyond
thee."  He paused, and then went on.  "Magdalen,
my child, thou wilt always be a good girl, and do what
the worthy Prioress tells thee.  If aught taketh me
away, thou wilt mind what I have said, and there will
be those who will care for thee.  Thou must learn to
look kindly on Master Bowerman, and thy fortunes
may one day be happier than now seemeth likely.
But leave me now; I must settle these matters, and
the time is not over long."

Magdalen, well knowing the reserved nature of her
father, and not caring for the escort of Master Bowerman,
especially after what she had overheard, resolved
to go back to the nunnery; but she also made up her
mind she would see the Hermit of St Catherine's on
her way, and tell him of her anxiety.

She therefore took leave of her father, who seemed
more affectionate than usual; and declining Bowerman's
offer of accompanying her, she climbed the difficult
path up the cliff, and disappeared over the brow
of the gorge.





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.. _`HOW THE CAPTAIN KEPT TRYST`:

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   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE CAPTAIN KEPT TRYST.

.. vspace:: 2

It was about a month after the tourney, when
Ralph, who had entirely recovered from his
wound, was summoned to attend the Captain of the
Wight.

On entering the Lord Woodville's room, he found
that nobleman standing before the fire in a contemplative
attitude, and Ralph stood for a few moments
in respectful silence.

Presently Lord Woodville looked up, and, noticing
Ralph, resumed at once his usual manner.

"My young esquire," he said, "I have sent for thee
because there is no one of my household whom I can
trust more than thee."

Ralph coloured up with pleasure; he noticed with
pride the change of title.  He was no longer a page,
but esquire to his lord.  But what went to his heart far
more than this was being addressed in such affectionate
and trusting terms.  Lord Woodville had won the boy's
heart from the first by his noble bearing, handsome
appearance, and lonely life.  In the midst of a gay
and martial household, always dignified, placid, and
reserved, Lord Woodville seemed to him like some
hero of romance, some knight-templar who had
consecrated his life to God, and, unlike the common herd
of monks, who withdrew from the world in timidity or
selfish sloth, he remained in it to face the temptations,
the pleasures, and the vices, and to face them not merely
as an idle spectator, but as a splendid protest against
the vanity of the world.  Not pledged or bound by any
such bonds as those by which weaker mortals sought
to guard themselves from the allurements of life; not
fleeing for protection to the feeble chains of monastic
institutions, or even the semi-monastic life of the great
military order which alone survived, but like a stout
pinnacle of indestructible granite round which some
stream for ever dashes its ceaseless waves, now
striving to wear it away with the soft embrace and gentle
murmurs of its softly wooing current, then dashing
against the calm rock in the wild tumult of its turbid
waters, and seeking to topple it from its base with the
rage of its fierce turmoil, so stood out the life of the
Lord Woodville in its tranquil strength.

Outwardly cold, but inwardly burning with the
desire of martial fame; always the first in all warlike
enterprise; a strict disciplinarian, but a most kind
and gentle knight to all in distress or suffering, the
Captain of the Wight was the beau ideal of a *preux
chevalier*.  In every battle of the fierce civil wars he
had shown himself a daring man-at-arms, as well
as a prudent chieftain, and, like his accomplished
brother, he was devoted to the arts in times of
peace.  He was a strict observer of the religious
life of the times, and although not blind to the
many shortcomings of the clergy, yet he did all in
his power to promote the influence of religion, and
to improve all with whom he came in contact.

A deep sorrow had fallen upon him in his domestic
relations.  His gallant father, the Earl of Rivers,
together with his brother, Sir John Woodville, had been
beheaded barbarously by the orders of the great Earl
of Warwick.  His brilliant brother, the Lord Scales,
died under the executioner's sword at the cruel
mandate of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, for no
other crime than attachment to his nephews and his
widowed sister.  His two nephews had perished, no
man knew how, in the Tower of London; and he
himself had been blighted in his affections at an
early age.  His mother had laboured under the
accusation of sorcery and witchcraft--a most dangerous
charge in those days.  His sister, the lovely
Elizabeth Woodville, was mistrusted by the cold and
calculating Henry; while his niece, the young and
still more beautiful Elizabeth, although consort of
the King, was not yet crowned Queen, in spite of
having been married more than a year and a half,
and having borne an heir to the two rival houses.

To relieve his active mind and vigorous frame from
these anxieties, the Captain of the Wight welcomed
every chance of wielding his sword or plying his
lance in the stern excitement of war.

At this moment there was going on across
the water a contest which had peculiar fascinations
for a chivalrous mind.  The aged and weak
Francis, Duke of Brittany, with his young
daughter, the celebrated Anne, the future wife
of two kings, and mother of one Queen of France,
was now being besieged by the whole force of that
kingdom.  The English King was repeatedly solicited
to bring or send over assistance, and he was strongly
tempted to interfere in the quarrel, on the urgent
grounds of private gratitude and national policy;
but, only just secured on his throne by a victorious
battle over a desperate enemy, and well aware how
many secret foes he had, Henry VII. was unwilling
to draw upon himself the active hostility of France,
as well as the perpetual machinations of the Dowager
Duchess of Burgundy.  He therefore listened to the
ambassadors of both the contending powers, but
publicly refused to interfere by men or money.

Many, however, of Henry's subjects, tired of
inaction, and early inured to arms, longed to take
part in the struggle, and no one believed that the
King would really be sorry if private adventurers
undertook what he was prevented from doing
ostensibly from reasons of State policy.

The Lord Woodville was well acquainted with the
cautious, cold, and calculating disposition of Henry
VII.  He had known him in exile, when they
both fled to the hospitable Court of the Duke of
Brittany, where the young Earl of Richmond had
given promise of his virtues and his faults, and
he had little doubt that, although he would forbid
publicly any interference in the wars in Brittany,
he would secretly be grateful to any one who would
help to save that province from becoming an actual
part of France, and thus inflict another blow on
England's hereditary enemy.  For no one then doubted
that whatever weakened a neighbour was a gain to
oneself.

The Captain of the Wight had lately pondered
deeply over these matters, and he was urged by his
inclination, as well as by motives of ambition, to take
part in this struggle.  He was also influenced by
a strong impulse.  His life had latterly become
well nigh unbearable.  Old memories of the lady he
had loved so ardently had been strangely stirred.
He had been strongly reminded of her by the face
of the nun.  He knew he was accused by his lost
love's husband of having received her when she
fled from her home--driven away by her own
misery and the cruelty of her husband.  Pledged
to each other by mutual affection in early youth,
Sir Edward Woodville had been separated by the
animosities of the time, and his own want of fortune,
from the object of his youthful love.  Her father, a
fierce Lancastrian, had died in the merciless battle
of Towton, and the young lady, by the death of her
father now become a ward of the Crown, was given,
as a reward for his support, to young George Lisle,
who had disobeyed his father, and taken part in the
civil wars, on the side of the White Rose.  The young
esquire was knighted by Edward IV. on the battlefield,
and from that time forward was first in tilt
and fight, and the most devoted of the adherents of
the House of York.  But as the marriage was the
result of compulsion on the one side, and of ambition
on the other, no happiness could ensue; and the
neglect of the husband, combined with his fierce
temper and ungovernable ways, acting upon the
passionate disposition of his wife, who fought against
her destiny like some imprisoned bird against the
bars of its cage, caused such misery to result, that
at last, after the birth of an only daughter, the
wretched wife fled, no one knew whither; but all
men who knew her story suspected to her old love,
Sir Edward Woodville, who was in exile.  The successful
fight of Bosworth Field reversed the situation,
and the husband had to become the exile in turn,
while Sir Edward Woodville, restored to his rank
and position, succeeded his murdered brother in the
lordship of the Wight.  The two rivals had never
met since the marriage, excepting once, about a month
after that event.  It was at a tournament, and Sir
Edward Woodville purposely chose the opposite side
to that on which Sir George Lisle was challenger.
The shock was fierce, and both knights were
unhorsed; but Sir Edward Woodville, in the second
encounter, hurled his antagonist from the saddle, and
carried off the prize of the tourney.  After this, Sir
Edward Woodville was employed on affairs of State
which kept him away from the Court, and during
the whole of the last reign he had resided abroad.

Equally with the rest of the world he was ignorant
as to what had become of Lady Lisle; and although
he was well aware that he was credited with aiding
in her flight, and, indeed, of secretly providing
her with a refuge, he was far too haughty to take
any steps to contradict this statement, merely
contenting himself by remarking that, 'if men wished
to believe lies, certes he could not prevent them.'

"Ralph," said Lord Woodville, "I have need of a
trusty esquire.  I have noticed thy hardihood and
devotion to me; wouldst thou wish to be put still
more to the proof?"

"My lord, only try me; there is naught I would
not do in thy service."

"Then, my fair esquire, as thou art now full strong
again, and art in good trim to ride forth in harness,
at ten o' the clock this evening thou must be on the
road to Gatcombe, armed *cap-à-pié*, and mounted on
thy stoutest charger.  Thou wilt wait there, at about
a mile from the castle, until I meet thee, and wilt go
forth with me where I shall lead.  It may be a dangerous
service; that, I know well, will only make thee
all the more wishful to go.  But I would not willingly
imperil thy young life, and I fain trust there is naught
that will do thee hurt.  Thou must tell no man,
and prepare thee for the coming venture.  Go now,
therefore, and take rest, eat well, and make all ready
against the time appointed."

Full of joyful pride at the thought of his lord's
confidence, and delighted at the prospect of the
mysterious adventure to be undertaken alone with
the Captain of the Wight, Ralph retired.

"Why, Ralph, how joyous thou seemest," said Dicky
Cheke, whom he met in the courtyard.  "What's come
to thee, man?"

But Ralph only gaily twitched his ear in passing,
and went out to the stables to look at his horse, his
favourite, White Willie.  The injury to his other
war-horse was so severe that it was still unfit for service,
and those learned in horse-flesh gave it as their opinion
that it was doubtful whether he could ever be of use
again.

Although very careful search had been made for
Eustace Bowerman, he had not been seen or heard of
since the night of the attempt on Ralph's life.  In the
inquiry that followed, the fact of Newenhall having
given Ralph the message which sent him to the gate
told very greatly against that young man.  Asked to
explain, he said he was told to give the message to
Ralph by an unknown man; and when asked to describe
the stranger, he said it was so dark he could
not make him out.  As all this was very unsatisfactory,
and as his conduct was totally unsuited to a
page or esquire in the service of so martial a chief
as the Captain of the Wight, Newenhall had been
dismissed, and was now, much to the delight of the other
pages, enjoying the tranquillity of his own home.  Two
new pages had lately come to take the place of Bowerman
and Newenhall, who were merry, high-spirited
boys, and with whom Dicky Cheke and Maurice Woodville
got on very much better.  Ralph had so greatly
distinguished himself that he was far removed over
the heads of the others, and, had it not been for his
naturally sweet disposition, might have become spoilt
by such rapid advancement.

The rest of the day was passed by Ralph in
carefully examining his arms.  Humphrey had seen to
everything during the time his young master was laid
by, and all the parts of his armour, or harness, as it
was called, were in first-rate condition.  In addition
to his sword and lance, Ralph took a beautifully-made
and accurately-weighted *martel de fer*, or mace,
a most deadly weapon for close combat, where its keen
and powerful edges, combined with its weight, told
terribly in breaking up an opponent's armour.

As the hour approached, Ralph's impatience became
more and more uncontrollable, and in order to hide it,
he went for a stroll on the castle battlements.

It was now the second week in November.  The
weather had been mild for the time of year.  As
Ralph stepped out into the courtyard, he noticed that
the moon, now at its first quarter, was rising over
Mountjoy's Tower, projecting the shadow of its
well-proportioned battlements across the quadrangle.  A
yellow haze round the moon gave signs of a change
in the weather, and the breeze seemed to come keener
over the north-east wall, causing the ivy to rustle and
the vane over the chapel belfry to creek and rattle.
As the young esquire paused, a melodious boom
vibrated on his ear.  It was the big bell of Quarr
Abbey sounding the curfew.

"The wind is in the east," thought Ralph; "there
will be snow anon; but 'tis time Humphrey came to
arm me.  I marvel he cometh not.  Ah, there he is,"
he added, and joyfully turned to go to his room.

The arming did not take long, and clad in complete
steel, wearing a plain tabard, with only the red cross
of St George on it, like any other man-at-arms, Ralph
strode down to the hall door.  He had told no one of
his coming expedition, and had carried out his lord's
commands as to secrecy implicitly.

Humphrey soon brought round his noble war horse,
and the young esquire mounted immediately.

How exciting it seemed to him as the horse's iron
shoes clanked over the drawbridge, and he heard the
massive chains grating over the wheels as it was
drawn up again.  He rode out into the misty night,
and turned his horse's head southward.

This was the first time in his life he had gone forth
on a service of danger fully armed and prepared to
face a foe.  There was something thrillingly exciting
in this night adventure alone with the Captain of the
Wight.  What could it mean?  What danger could
there be?  And why, if there were any, should he, the
lord of the island, go forth attended but by one esquire
to affront it alone?  The delight of uncertainty and
mystery hung round the future, and heightened still
more the glory of being the only sharer in his Captain's
peril.  Ralph felt he could dare anything in the
presence and on behalf of such a master.

He had now reached a lonely part of the rough
track which had been his road on the night when he
was so nearly being dashed to pieces over the edge of
that cliff.  Ralph had not visited the place since, and
the whole adventure seemed more than ever like a
dream.  As he recalled the circumstances, his thoughts
reverted to the tournament, and as he thought, he suddenly
recollected the curious episode of the little glove.
He had never before dreamt of connecting the wearing
of that glove with his success in the tilt.  It now all
came before him, and he pondered deeply on the
strange circumstance.  While thus lost in thought, he
did not notice the distant sound of a horse's hoofs, and
was abruptly recalled to life by seeing a steel-clad
figure gleaming in the moonlight coming steadily
towards him.

With the prompt action of one well trained in the
skill of a man-at-arms, Ralph grasped his lance, which
he had hitherto been carrying slung behind him, and
placed it in rest, holding his horse in readiness to
charge, and wheeling him round so as to face the
newcomer, for he could not tell whether he were friend
or foe.

But in another moment he brought his lance to its
erect position again, and saluted his lord.  It was the
Captain of the Wight.  He was fully armed, and wore
a tilting helmet, but perfectly plain, only a little ribbon
fluttered in the breeze from the spike on the crown of
the helm.  He looked a splendid figure of knightly
grace and strength, as he sat with perfect seat his
powerful horse.  Round his gorget was suspended his
shield, but there was no blazon on it, and he wore no
tabard or surcoat over his magnificent suit of ribbed
Milanese armour.  The light of the moon gleamed on
his steel helmet, his globular corslet, and the taces
cuisses, or thigh pieces, and steel jambs which
protected his legs.  He carried his long lance slung from
his right arm, and the butt resting in a socket at his
right stirrup.

"Well met, Master Lisle," called out Lord
Woodville through his closed helm.  "Thou art true
to tryst; 'tis a fair promise of thy worth.  But
haste we onward.  I would be loth to be last in the
field."

Wheeling his horse round, Ralph rode after his
lord, keeping at a respectful distance.  In this way
they rode for some three miles, when the Lord Woodville
called to Ralph to come up.

"My son," he said gravely, "I have sure trust in
thee, as I have told thee before; that is why I have
brought thee with me.  As no man knoweth what
may be in store for him, I have left on my table, in a
casket of wrought metal, a missive.  In case aught
should befall me, thou wilt ride back, and have a care
to take that casket with the missive to Appuldurcombe
Nunnery, and leave it for Sister Agnes.  Thou
comprehendest perfectly?  But whatever befalls, bear in
mind that no word of what I have told thee get to
other ears."

Ralph promised obedience, and they once more
lapsed into silence.

After riding steadily for some two miles more, Lord
Woodville left the beaten track, and descending a
steep slope in the downs, from which the open sea
was visible in all its sparkling beauty, he rode along
a secluded dell towards the bold height of St Catherine's
down.  Having reached an old withered thorn-bush
which grew in weird loneliness by the sedgy
bank of a little stream, the Captain of the Wight
halted.

"Certes, we are on the ground first: I see no signs
of aught living."

Ralph scanned the surrounding landscape.  There
was a haze abroad, hindering the view for any distance.
All he could see was a level sward extending towards
the sea, and of considerable width, covered with close
herbage, and admirably suited for a tilting match,
forming a natural list.

Meanwhile the Lord Woodville had dismounted,
and was tightening his horse's girths.

"Pace thy horse down the centre of yon lawn,
Ralph," said his lord, "and when thou hast ridden
some bow-shot length, turn back, but mark well the
ground, to see if it be rough or swampy."

Ralph did as he was bid.

"There is not a hole or spongy place anywhere, my
lord," he said, as he returned to Lord Woodville.

"Aha! here they come--but," said the Captain of
the Wight, "I did not count on more than one."

As he spoke, Ralph looked round and saw four
figures approaching.  Two were mounted, and two
were on foot.  The mounted figures were also in
complete armour, and Ralph had an impression that he
had seen both before.

Lord Woodville mounted the moment he saw the
new-comers approaching, and rode slowly forward to
meet them, at the same time bringing his lance round,
and holding it on his hip in readiness for use.  Ralph
having no orders, thought it best to imitate his chief,
and holding his lance prepared for instant action, he
followed the Captain of the Wight.  When the two
little groups had approached within speaking
distance, Lord Woodville reined up, and lowered his
lance in courteous salute to the knight opposite
him--a courtesy the latter returned with much formality.
Ralph noticed that the man-at-arms, who rode a little
behind his chief, reined up his horse out of hearing
of Lord Woodville, and appeared to be giving
some directions to the two foot men, who seemed
well-armed, sturdy knaves.  He determined to keep a close
watch on the movements of these latter, especially as
he thought he recognised them as the same men who
had attended on the unknown knight, and one of whom
seemed intimate with Bowerman.





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.. _`OF THE COMBAT *À OUTRANCE*`:

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   CHAPTER XXI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   OF THE COMBAT *À OUTRANCE*.

.. vspace:: 2

After the Captain of the Wight and the stranger
knight had gravely saluted each other, there was
a pause.  The silence was broken by Lord Woodville.

"Sir Knight," he said, "you have challenged me to
mortal combat.  You have flung charges in my teeth
that are false and foul.  You have aspersed the name
which you, of all men, ought most to reverence, and
yet, rebel as you are, you have put yourself in my
hands as Captain for the King.  I come here as plain
Edward Woodville, knight and simple gentleman.
The Captain of the Wight has laid aside his authority
to give the lie to your words, and to prove on
your body the truth of his.  But before we try the
judgment of battle, for the sake of one who is utterly
free from the vile taunts you have flung forth, I would
fain tell you that as that moon floats pure and serene
in yonder azure sky, so that name is as unsullied, and
that life as chaste.  If you are still fain to try the
hazard of battle, maugre my solemn statement, here
am I ready to meet you, as man to man, and may
Heaven defend the right.  Thou well knowest thou
hast done to me the cruellest wrong one man can do
to another on this earth.  Thou hast blighted two
lives, and thou wouldst defame them as well.  If any
man longed for vengeance, 'twere certes I who ought
to pray for it.  Yet, Heaven knoweth, I harbour no
thoughts of revenge, and I would be well content that
thou and I should never meet.  Thou hast taken a
bold step, and one that doeth credit to my knightly
honour more than all thy base aspersions have done
to assail it, by coming to my government, and putting
thyself in my power, well knowing that for a private
wrong no belted knight who deserved the name would
use the power of his office to wreak vengeance on a
personal foe by means of the authority given him by
the King.  But in sparing a fugitive from Stoke field,
and in not handing him up to the royal power, I may
be tried for my life, and lose all worldly renown in a
traitor's death.  Knowing this, thou hast put it to the
hazard, and to wreak vengeance on me hast cared
naught that in sparing thee I am running the chance
of dying on the block.  Trusting to my chivalry, and
safe from my authority, because thou knewest I would
use no power over thee but such as my own arm and
stout lance could give me, thou hast yet dared to
jeopardise my life and fame, only to meet me in
mortal fight.  Sir Knight, thou hast done ill, but no
worse than thou hast done in all thy life."

The strange knight listened silently to the Lord
Woodville.  He waited to hear if he were going to
say more; but after a little pause, seeing that the
Captain of the Wight had finished his speech, he
replied, briefly and bitterly,--

"Sir Edward Woodville--commonly called Lord
Woodville,--I am here to fight, not to bandy words.
I believe thou art a full worshipful knight, and therefore
I did thee the honour of trusting to thy courtesy,
and I was not mistaken; but as for what thou sayest,
I believe not one word.  Well know I that the trained
and pretty merlin will return to the hand of him who
trained her--while even the lanner will go back at
the call of the lure.  Say no more.  That thou hast
left me unmolested, I thank thee; for the ill thou hast
done, I hate thee, and mean on thy body to take full
vengeance for mine own dishonour.  Let us waste no
more words, but begin; I scorn thee, hate thee, and
thirst to be revenged on thee."

No more words were spoken.  The two knights
wheeled round their horses, and paced back a
sufficient distance.  Then turning about, they faced
each other.

The scene looked strange and spectral.  The moon,
blurred by a flitting mist, which flickered over its
face, shone down on the ghostly figures of the gleaming
horsemen.  The two esquires, encased, like their
lords, in complete harness, sat motionless on their
horses a little behind the chief actors in the coming
duel.  The dark forms of the two foot men were
dimly to be seen to the left of the horsemen; while
beyond the silent group, the grey sea stretched away
and away until it seemed to rise to the leaden clouds
which hung like a livid pall beneath the silvery moon.
On either side rose the dim downs, and over all a
light mist clung to the shimmering landscape, making
the weird figures seem more phantomlike in their
faint and misty vagueness.  There was nothing human
in the scene.  The grim forms, the strange-shaped
helmets, the utter absence of all external signs of life
in those steel-cased horsemen, their powerful chargers
weirdly hidden in polished steel, all combined to make
them look like huge monsters of a far-gone age
returned to visit by the pale moonlight the haunts of
their prehistoric life.  Only the steam from the
nostrils of the warhorses gave the least sign of actual
existence to the scene.  Around were the everlasting
hills; beyond, the ever restless sea; above, the
infinite vault of space, with the scarred and blighted
face of the vapourless moon looking down on the
puny strife of men whose little lives and passions
are to the universe but as the indistinguishable pulses
of the tiniest of microbes or as the froth of a bubble
floating in infinity.

Without waiting for any word, the two knights, as
if by a common impulse, clapped spurs to their chargers,
and with lance in rest, and bodies well down under
their shields, rode fiercely for each other.  This was
no gentle tilt with blunted lances, but each knight
knew his existence was at stake, and that in the keen
thrust of the gleaming spear-point lay life or death.
They met in a hurtling crash, and the noise of splintering
wood and clanging metal rang through the silence
of the night.  For a moment no one knew what had
happened; but as the two horses broke away, it was
seen that they trotted off without their riders.

Scarcely waiting to see what had happened, Ralph
caught his lord's war-horse, and returned to his place.
Eagerly he looked to see what had been the result.
One knight had risen from the ground; the other was
attempting to do so, but only feebly moved.  Ralph
rode nearer, and the other three figures advanced
also.  The excitement in Ralph's heart was intense:
what should he do if his dearly loved lord were slain?
A fierce thought rose.  He would hurl himself on
the others, and either avenge his master, or die in
the attempt.

But as he drew nearer, his bitter anxiety was
changed to joy.  It was Lord Woodville who was on
his feet, and standing over the writhing body of his
antagonist.

"Yield thee, Sir George Lisle!" said the Captain of
the Wight, in a stern, but feeble voice.

"I yield to no man!" came back the fierce answer,
still more faintly hissed through the closed helm.
"Do thy worst!"

For a moment Lord Woodville seemed uncertain
what to do.  He held his keen poignard in his left
hand, and his drawn sword in the other, and held the
point of it to the narrow opening in the close-shut
helm.

But before he could form a decided resolve, a fierce
voice called out,--

"Upon him, and revenge your lord."

And with lowered lance the man-at-arms charged
the Captain of the Wight, while the two sturdy varlets
sprang at Ralph.  But the young esquire, hearing the
words and seeing the movement, with a touch of the
spur leaped his horse in front of his lord, and received
the lance-thrust of the man-at-arms on his shield,
dealing his assailant a fierce buffet in return.

"Ah, caitiff!" cried Ralph.  "Vile traitor that thou
art, thou shall rue thy villainy!"

"Shall I, in sooth, sir upstart?" sneered a
well-known voice.  "Thou hast escaped me once, but now
I have thee.  See, thy lord is falling to the ground."

Ralph turned instinctively to look, and at the same
moment received a stunning blow on the side of his
helmet which nearly knocked him out of the saddle;
but he quickly recovered himself, and flinging down
his lance, he seized his *martel de fer*, or mace, and
reining his horse backwards, he dealt the varlet who
was attacking Lord Woodville a terrific blow on the
head, instantly felling the man to the ground.  But it
was true, Lord Woodville had fallen to the ground,
and the other footman was upon him.  Ralph, without
a moment's hesitation, sprang from his horse and
struck wildly at the man, who was just wrenching off
Lord Woodville's helmet.  The blow took only partial
effect, but it drew the attention of the man to him,
and with an oath he turned savagely upon the young
esquire.

The odds were terribly against him.

"Have at the coxcomb, Dan; he's only good for
tilting before ladies, and only then when they bribe
their lovers to spare his dainty youth," called out the
man-at-arms, as he prepared to strike Ralph again
with his uplifted sword.  But Ralph did not yet lose
hope.  The love of life was strong in him.  He closed
with the half-armed varlet, and dealt him a blow with
his poignard, which he had now drawn.  The man
uttered a fearful imprecation, and cut at Ralph with
his axe; but the harness of the young esquire was
good, and the weapon only glanced aside.  Seeing
how little use was his axe, the man dropped it, and
drew his dagger also, closing with Ralph, and trying
to drive the point through the bars of his visor.  But
the boy had been well taught, and he parried the
thrust on his steel gauntlet, dealing his foe a deep
stab with his right hand.

"Strike him, youngster, strike him!" shouted the
man, in fierce rage.  "What art standing there for
seeing him murdering me?"

"How can I strike him without doing thee a mischief,
old stockfish?  Get thyself away, and I'll soon
do for him."

But Ralph fully understood his advantage, and
wrestled with the man until they both fell to the
ground over the prostrate body of Lord Woodville.

The man-at-arms now got off his horse and came
to the assistance of the varlet who had fallen upon
Ralph, but was severely wounded.

"Drive thy sword through his visor," gasped the
man, whose arms were held by Ralph, who was
struggling to regain his feet.

The keen point played around the helmet of the
esquire, who by twisting and turning his head
prevented the thrust from taking effect, but, held as he
was by the weight of the varlet above him, he could
not hope to avoid the blow much longer.

"Wrench off his helm, man!" cried the impatient
man-at-arms.

"How can I?  Don't you see he's got hold of my
arms?" said the other, in a gruff voice, which was
growing fainter.  "Stab him! why don't ye?  Stab
him!"

.. _`HE DROVE HIS DAGGER INTO THE CAITIFF ABOVE HIM`:

.. figure:: images/img-266.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "HE DROVE HIS DAGGER INTO THE CAITIFF ABOVE HIM."

   "HE DROVE HIS DAGGER INTO THE CAITIFF ABOVE HIM."

Ralph made one more desperate effort; he drove
his dagger into the caitiff above him, who with a deep
groan ceased struggling and rolled over, thus freeing
Ralph, who sprang to his feet and turned upon the
man-at-arms.

The young esquire still had his mace hanging from
the chain slung round his right arm.  Seizing it in
his gauntleted hand, and transferring his dagger to
his left, he struck furiously at the steel-clad figure
before him, parrying at the same time with his dagger
a dangerous thrust aimed at his visor.  The mace
crashed on the helmet of his foe, and a smothered
exclamation of pain and rage came from out the
barred morion.

Cutting wildly at the gorget of the young esquire,
the man-at-arms turned and made a dash for his
horse.

"Stay, man-at-arms!  Turn, caitiff that thou art!"
called Ralph after him.  "Ah, recreant esquire, get
thee gone, then, coward that thou art!" and Ralph,
who was thinking more of his lord than of the pursuit
of his cowardly assailant, turned back from following
him to attend to his prostrate chief.

As he bent over Lord Woodville, he noticed a dark
patch on his shining armour.  There was a deep dent
in the globular breast-plate, and the broken end of a
lance head was sticking in it.

Ralph was in despair; the Captain of the Wight
lay motionless in his harness; the silence was broken
only by the cry of a sea-fowl as it circled over head,
and the distant thud of the sea as it rolled on the
shore below.  Was Ralph the only living thing in
that lonely valley among the solemn hills?

He undid the buckle of his lord's helmet, and reverently
removed the cumbrous tilting-helm.  As he did
so he heard a faint sigh from the stricken knight, and
as the moonlight fell on his noble features he opened
his eyes.

"My lord, my lord, thou art not dead!" cried Ralph
in joy.  But no answer came back, the eyes had closed
again, and despair once more seized on the young
esquire.

What could he do?  He looked round.  What was
it that flickered against his face?  The air was
piercingly cold, and the moon had become obscured by a
thickening of the air.  Ralph had opened his visor,
that he might attend his lord more easily.  Again
something flickered in his face, cold and feathery.  It
was snowing.

Here was a fresh cause for anxiety.  Alone in that
sequestered valley, who could bring them help?  And
he did not dare to leave his lord alone, for fear that
caitiff should return to finish the murderous work.
As Ralph looked round in despair at the dreary scene,
his heart sank within him.  The landscape was fast
becoming one grey indistinguishable blot, and the
feeble light of the hidden moon was turning to a
sickly livid hue.  In a short time, too, he knew the
moon would set.

A faint noise on the left caused Ralph to look
round.  The four bodies lay still and stark; but there
was something moving out of the grey obscurity of
the distance.  Ralph closed his visor and handled his
sword.  The dark object drew nearer, and a yellow
spark seemed to be coming with it.  Ralph called out,--

"Whoever thou art, hasten thy steps; if foe, that I
may handle thee, or if friend, that thou mayest help
my lord."

"'Tis a friend, my son, and I come apace as fast as
my stiffening joints will let me," cried a deep voice.

"Thank Heaven!" murmured the esquire.  "Then
my lord will not die."

By this time the dim shadow had come nearer, and
Ralph saw that there were two figures--one tall and
burly, the other short and slight.  Both were draped
in long cloaks, partially covered with the fast-falling
snow.  The taller of the new comers carried a lantern.

Dim and ghostly the figures looked in their peaked
hoods and long mantles, entirely concealing face and
form.

"Ah! we have come in time: no, no, too late!"
and the slighter figure uttered a shrill and bitter cry
of pain, as it bent over the lifeless mass of armour
which held the unknown knight.

"Look to my lord first," said Ralph shortly.

"My son, 'tis the young child's father; my lord will
wait," answered the elder stranger mildly, as he went
to help his childish companion.

But Ralph barred the way.

"Whoever thou art, thou shall see to my lord first,"
he cried, in a resolute tone.

Seeing the fierceness of the youth, the old man
quietly answered,--

"As thou wilt, my son; but thou shouldest respect
youth, old age, and filial grief.  But go thou and help
the child, while I attend to thy lord."

Ralph, rebuked, did as he was told, there was
such dignity, gentleness, and authority in the voice
and manner of the tall stranger.

It was now very difficult to see.  The moon had
set, and the snow was falling fast, while the wind
sighed mournfully through the withered boughs and
twigs of the lonely thorn tree.

"May God have mercy on all dying souls!" murmured
the dim shadow as it bent over the pale face
of Lord Woodville; and Ralph could have sobbed
aloud in anguish of heart as he felt his lord was dead.

"Oh, help me! help me!  Master Lisle!" cried the
agonised voice of the other stranger, shivering with
cold and pain of heart.  "Undo his helm or he will
die, an he be not gone already," and a piteous sob of
utter woe broke from the crouching figure.

Ralph, thinking only of his sorrow, did not notice
the keen grief of the other, but he hastened up
nevertheless, and speedily undid the helm.

"Oh, father! father!" sobbed the shivering voice;
"speak, father!"

But no sound came from the set mouth, and the
child broke out into piteous distress, sobbing and
choking as though her heart would break.

Ralph was touched.  Even in his own stony sorrow
he felt for the poor child.

"Nay, nay, he may not be dead," he said, trying
to comfort her.  "See, he moves!" he cried, noticing
a quiver of the gauntleted hand.

"Let me look, my son," said the gentle voice of the
other stranger.  "Go thou, catch yonder horse; thy
lord lives, and will recover."

"Will he?" cried Ralph joyously, springing up and
going in search of the horses, which, well trained as
they were, were standing under the shelter of the
thorn-bush out of the fast-driving snow.

When he returned leading the two horses, he was
delighted to find Lord Woodville sitting up.

"My fair boy," said the Captain of the Wight, in
a faint voice, "thou must help me on to my charger
and lead me home.  I have been hard stricken, albeit
the wound is not mortal.  But before thou aidest me,
see to the state of Sir George Lisle: I would be loth
he should die."

Lord Woodville spoke with difficulty, and paused
between his words.

Ralph did as he was told, and found the two
shrouded figures still bending over the inanimate
knight.

"The Lord Woodville hath sent me to make inquiry
of the knight--how fareth he?"

"Make answer that he is sore stricken, and in
parlous case; but an we may get him to a place of
shelter, he may do well."

Ralph returned and reported the message.

"Is there no other horse but mine?  If not, take
mine and leave me here," said Lord Woodville simply.

He had drawn his sword, and was holding it by the
blade before him.  The sword thus held had all the
proportions of a Latin cross.

"'Thou shalt love thine enemies.  Do good to those
who hate thee,'" murmured the wounded Captain of
the Wight.

"My lord, there is the knight's own horse, or he can
have mine."

"Haste thee, then! gentle youth, for his wounds
and mine are growing stiff, and there is need of
shelter," faintly gasped the wounded Captain.

With rather more difficulty Ralph caught the other
horse, and led it up to the little group in the snow.
Then, by dint of hard exertion, the Hermit of St
Catherine's--for it was he who had come to their
aid--and Ralph lifted the wounded knight on to his
horse, and the old man holding him in his high-peaked
saddle, with the slight figure leading the horse
by its bridle, they disappeared in the grey obscurity.

Ralph now returned to his lord.  To his surprise
and joy he found the Captain of the Wight had risen
to his feet.  The Hermit had removed the corslet,
extracted the spear-head, and staunched the wound
with some balsam and simples for healing sword or
lance wounds.  With effort he was able to mount
his horse, and with Ralph holding the bridle, and
ready to steady his lord in his saddle should he feel
faint or giddy, the two figures wended their way over
the snow towards Carisbrooke Castle.

It was a weary journey, and Ralph never felt so
relieved in his life as when he descried the noble pile
standing up black and grand in the midst of the
white landscape.

With wonderful courage and resolution Lord Woodville
sat erect in his saddle as they entered by the
little postern gate, at which only one archer was on
guard.  He so carried himself until they reached the
door of his own apartments, then, dismounting with
Ralph's aid, he staggered to a settle in the hall and
fainted away.

Ralph had presence of mind enough not to disturb
the house.  He went to Lady Trenchard's apartments
and called her.  That prudent lady soon came, and
with her husband's assistance they managed to get
the Lord Woodville to his room.  Seeing his lord in
safe hands, Ralph left to look after the horses.  But
Humphrey had already led them away, and in a few
moments more Ralph, with the aid of his trusty varlet,
had taken off his harness, and was soon fast asleep.

When he awoke next morning, the chapel bell
was tolling, and he could hear the merry voices
of the other pages as they lounged round the hall
door before going into chapel.  All things seemed
as usual, but one more strange adventure had added
its experience to the life of Ralph.  He could scarcely
believe it was little more than half a year since he had
left his home.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OF THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   OF THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER.

.. vspace:: 2

During the next two months events of importance
had occurred.  The Captain of the Wight
had recovered from his wound in time to attend the
splendid ceremony of his niece's coronation, and his
faithful young esquire had accompanied him to
London.  It was a joyful time.  On their march from
Southampton to the metropolis, Ralph obtained leave
to visit his home.

Attended by Humphrey, he separated from the
retinue of the Captain of the Wight at Southampton,
to join it again at Guildford.  By riding fast he would
be able to make up for the longer distance, and would
thus obtain time to spend one night at home.

The talk of all the garrison of Carisbrooke Castle
and indeed of all the south of England, was the
approaching war with France.  No man doubted, and
all men wished, that Henry VII. would be driven to
take the part of his old benefactor, Francis, Duke of
Brittany, in the defence of his duchy against the troops
of France, led by the young King Charles VIII.  It
was so obviously the policy of England to prevent this
powerful duchy being united to the French crown, which
was already giving signs of the power it possessed, under
the crafty rule of Louis XI., that far-seeing English
statesmen like the Bishop of Ely, Master Christopher
Urswick, and Sir John Edgecomb, the prototypes of
England's diplomatists, could not doubt that Henry
must see the vast importance of keeping France
disunited, and of maintaining such an "*imperium in
imperio*" as Brittany in semi-independence.  Englishmen
still longed to wipe out the disgrace of their
expulsion from France, and any prospect of war with
that country was hailed with joy.  For war meant,
according to the views of the time, not an impoverishment
of both contending nations, but an increase of
wealth to one or the other.  Every esquire or common
soldier might return a rich man.  If, now-a-days,
young men go forth to the ends of the earth to dig
for gold, or spend their young lives in isolated exile
in the wilds of the far West, or the savannahs of South
America, or the rainless plains of Australia, with what
eagerness would they have turned to war, where
strength of arm and average good fortune meant
glory, social distinction, and personal wealth?  The
capture of a rich prisoner in war meant the payment
of a large ransom; and, as a wise man-at-arms knew,
the best investment of his money was in forming a
troop; the capture of one rich prisoner resulted in the
decrease of power to his country's foe, as well as the
personal aggrandisement of his captor.  And all this
brilliant prospect of success was enhanced by the
scene in which the aspirant to fame displayed his
prowess.  Not drearily working at dull, monotonous
manual labour far from the surroundings of
civilisation, but in the very heart of social life carving out
wealth, and fame, and name.  No wonder war was
popular.

To the eyes of the English people there never had
been a time better suited for recovering the Duchies
of Normandy, Guienne, and Gascony, since their final
loss, but thirty years before.  France's extremity had
always been England's opportunity; and it was
through Brittany and Normandy that English
men-at-arms had poured to the conquest of France--to
such splendid victories as Crecy and Agincourt.  As
Scotland was the thorn in England's side, so Brittany
and Burgundy were the sharp points wherewith to
rasp the French.

By a strange coincidence, the two capitals of
Burgundy and Brittany, similar in name--Nancy and
Nantes--received the mortal remains of their two last
dukes within ten years of each other.  In 1477 the last
male of the house of Burgundy was borne from the field
of battle to his splendid tomb in Nancy, leaving his only
daughter to be despoiled of her inheritance by the
craft of Louis XI.; while in 1488 the last male of
the house of Brittany was entombed in the magnificent
pile erected to his memory in the church of the
Carmelites at Nantes, leaving also an only daughter
to be fought for by an emperor, a king, a royal
duke, and a puissant lord of the Pyrenees.  And, by
another singular fatality, the same Prince became the
husband of both heiresses.  Maximilian won, but
speedily lost, both Mary of Burgundy and Anne of
Brittany.

The common talk of all men, therefore, was the
expedition that would shortly sail for France.  The
Captain of the Wight made no secret of his intentions,
but determined to obtain the royal sanction first.

Full of the exciting prospects before him, and proud
of his rapid progress, Ralph rode eagerly home.

With what joy he saw the blue smoke curling over
the brown trees which hid the old manor house.

"See, Humphrey, there's the gilded vane on the
west gable, and now I can see the stacks of chimneys.
Whoop, lad, get on;" and the joyous boy urged his
horse to a quicker pace.  In a few minutes more he
had turned the corner of the road, and before him lay
the picturesque range of old gables and low windows.

He had not been able to let his parents know of
his coming.  He cantered up to the gate, jumped off
his horse, and in another minute was in his mother's
arms.

There is no need to describe the pride and joy of
his parents, or the half-concealed awe of his brother
Jasper.  His younger brother had gone to Oxenford,
and sent home from time to time accounts of his progress.
After a delightful visit, all too short for Ralph
and his parents, the young esquire set out to rejoin
his lord.  He arrived in time at Guildford, and the
next day they entered the capital.

The King had already returned with his nobles and
men-at-arms from the progress he had been making
in the north, and the next day the ceremony of the
coronation of the Queen was to take place.  Ralph
was in immediate attendance on his lord, who, as
uncle of the Queen, held a high place of honour in the
ceremonies.  The esquire was witness of the
installation of fourteen Knights of the Bath, and was
astonished at the grandeur, solemnity, and state of the
proceedings.  But what amazed him most was the
gorgeous procession of barges, all gilded and
bedecked with flags, which accompanied the Queen on
the Thames.  He was forcibly reminded of Yolande
as he saw the lovely young Queen, with her fair yellow
hair rippling in golden masses down her back,
intertwined with strings of jewels, and crowned with a golden
crown; dressed in "white cloth of gold of damask,"
and with a richly furred ermine mantle over her shapely
shoulders.  But the palm of beauty was carried off by
her second sister Cicely, the loveliest woman of her
time, whose romantic life had not yet reached its most
romantic period.  Ralph little knew that that
exquisite face and queenly figure would one day reside
in a humble manor-house but three miles from his
future home, and that her husband would be lower in
social station than himself.

He attended on the Captain of the Wight as one of
the suite, at the coronation banquet in the great hall,
and Ralph was again surprised at the gorgeous pageant.
But he did not like to see two such fair damoiselles as
the Lady Catherine Grey and Mistress Ditton sitting
under the table at the lovely Queen's feet, and could
not understand why the Lady Oxford and the Lady
Rivers should hold up, from time to time, a handkerchief
before that sweet face, while he pitied their
having to kneel through such a long state ceremony.[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Leland.  *Collectanea*.

.. vspace:: 2

He heard how urgently his lord strove to obtain
the sanction of Henry VII. to enlist men-at-arms and
archers for the aid of the Bretons.  But the presence
of the French Ambassadors, chief among whom were
the Lord Daubigny, a Scotch nobleman in the service
of the French crown, combined with a fear of internal
troubles in case he should engage in foreign wars, kept
that cautious monarch from giving any permission.

It was the opinion, however, of Lord Woodville, as
well as of most of the English nobles and statesmen,
that the King would not be at all averse to an
expedition being fitted out privately, which he could
disavow in public.  Indeed most men thought he would
be very much gratified by such an exhibition of zeal.

Full of these ideas, and encouraged by the promises
of assistance he received from many experienced
knights, as well as by numerous offers of service from
men of lesser rank, Sir Edward Woodville returned
to his island government.

The coronation had taken place in November; it
was now the middle of January 1488.  The next two
months were employed in sounding the principal
inhabitants of the island.

The Breton gentlemen had gone back to Brittany
trusting to the promised aid, and carrying with them
exaggerated ideas of Lord Woodville's position and
power.

Ralph and the other pages enjoyed their lives as
healthy boys engaged in the manly employments of
life in a mediæval castle must have enjoyed them.
Hawking, hunting, daily drill and exercise, boating
and fishing, such were their occupations.  Ralph had
never breathed a word of the midnight duel, nor did
he know what had become of the wounded knight.
The Captain of the Wight never referred to it, and he
kept his own counsel.  The valley was once revisited
by him, as far as he could recollect its whereabouts;
but in the coombes and dells of the downs there were so
many level swards at their base, that he was in doubt
whether he had come across the right one.  There were
no traces of any combat about them, there was the
thorn bush in one and another, and a little sedgy
stream, but no fresh mounds or splintered spears.

Ralph had seen much of his cousin Yolande, and
his affection and admiration for her were unbounded;
but he could not disguise from himself that although
she treated him with absolute candour and sisterly
affection, yet she always grew silent if the Captain of
the Wight were near, and hung on every word that
nobleman spoke.  It never crossed Ralph's mind to
be jealous, only he wished the Captain of the Wight
did not appear quite so often upon the scene.

But the thoughts of that nobleman were far removed
from such trivial subjects, if credence was to
be placed in his words and actions.  By sound of
trumpet and proclamation the inhabitants of the Isle
of Wight were summoned to a general muster at
Shide Bridge, a place already celebrated by a previous
muster to take account of the military strength
of the island in the reign of King Edward the Second,
held by John de la Hoese and John de Lisle.

Thither on the day appointed the gentry of the
island, with the yeomen and country people, wended
their way.  The Bailiffs of Newport, Newtown,
Yarmouth, and Brading, accompanied by the richer of
the burgesses of those boroughs, attended.  There
were the bailiffs and stewards of the various estates
held by the ecclesiastical bodies of Winchester
College, Whorwell Monastery, Christchurch Priory, and
Ashey; while the Abbot of Quarr, the Prior of
Carisbrooke, representing the Carthusian monastery of
Shene, and the Bailiff of Appuldurcombe, for the
nunnery of St Clare, without Aldgate, were also
present.  There came, besides, the reeves of the manors
belonging to the imprisoned Earl of Warwick, from
Brixton and Swainston.  There were representatives
of all the island families: Sir Nicholas Wadham, Sir
John Oglander, Sir William Lisle of Wootton, Master
Meaux, recovered from his rough handling of five
months before, a Bowerman from Brooke, Trenchards
from Watchingwell and Shalfleet, a Dineley from
Woolverton, a Cheke from Mattistone, the Bowermans
of Austerborne or Osborn, John Racket of Knighton,
and his relative by marriage, Leigh of Woolverton in
Bembridge, a Hawles of the ancient family of De
Aula from Stenbury Manor.  There were Urrys,
Keyneys, De Heynos, Bruyns, with many others
too numerous to mention, and a crowd of the
lesser yeomen and common people.  When all were
assembled, the Captain of the Wight, in full armour,
but with bare head, mounted on his splendid charger,
and surrounded by his seneschals, esquires, and pages,
addressed the crowd.

In a stirring speech he explained the situation.
He told how many evils the French had inflicted
upon their forefathers.  How in Edward the First's
reign they had threatened the island, but were
daunted by the stout preparations of the ancestors
of many there present.  How again in Edward the
Third's time they harassed the island by their evil
depredations, until under the brave Sir Theobald
Russel of Yaverland, who gave his life for his people,
they were driven out with loss and shame.  How
again in Richard the Second's reign the whole island
was overrun, and cruel damage inflicted, when all
their towns were in flames, and no place safe but the
Castle of Carisbrooke.  But here again the ancient
valour of their race broke out, and under the stout
Sir Hugh Tyrrel, "that right hardy knight," they
chased the false Frenchmen to their ships, slaying
them by scores, "insomuch that from that day
Deadman's Lane went by no other name, and Neddie's
Hill is still there to show the burial place of the
marauders."  Again how valorously they drove off
Waleran de St Pol, that "noble knight of haut
lineage," and frightened away the caitiffs again a few
years after; while in Henry the Fifth's time they
slew many who were running away to their ships.

"Shall we then," went on the Captain, "not recover
from these false robbers the wealth they have gotten
from us?  Shall we not avenge on them the wrongs
they have done to us?  Think, all ye brave knights
and sturdy yeomen, of the wealth ye will gain.  Think
all ye young esquires and right hardy varlets of the
honour and renown ye will acquire in the eyes of your
fair mistresses.  And, above all, think of the glory of
being the first to lead the way to victory, and recover
for England and our King the ancient lands and
duchies of which she hath been so foully robbed.  I
will stake life and fortune on the venture.  I will
warrant all men against loss.  You will do an action
pleasing to all England, and will save an oppressed
people, an aged duke, and a fair princess from the
cruel hands of the ravisher.  They are Bretons, so are
we.  They hate the French, so do we.  The tongue
they speak is the native tongue of our sovereign lord
the King.  Their hero is Arthur; their country is the
home of Lancelot-du-lac, Merlin, and all whom we
reverence as our own.  Shall we not bring help, if
in so doing we enrich ourselves, destroy our enemies,
win everlasting fame and name, and save our lives
and the lives of our children from future outrage?
Shall we not bring help?  Who are our allies?  The
King of the Romans, Lord of Austria, Italy, Allemayne,
Brabant, and Flanders; the Duke of Brittany, the
Duke of Orleans, the Prince of Orange, the Lord
d'Albret, and many more of high lineage, great estate,
and mighty valour.  Did fate ever offer such a
chance? and shall we throw it all away?  Rather than let
France, our bitter foe, rule over our ancient ally, I
myself will go with only my own household, and with
my single lance will venture my life for such a cause,
losing it with ready will, if so it must be.  But, noble
knights, gallant esquires, worthy burgesses, and sturdy
yeomen, shall we not all go together?  Shall we not
win wealth, renown, safety, and the everlasting
gratitude of our King, our country, and our children?"

There was a deep murmur of applause.  Every one
was moved.  Even the more reflecting portion of the
crowd recognised the truth of many passages in the
rousing speech of their Captain.  The enthusiasm of
the younger men was wild.  They applauded
vociferously, drawing their swords and waving them over
their heads, and it was with difficulty the voice of Sir
William Lisle could be heard.  He was speaking in
support of their Captain, and relating the terror the
fears of French invasions had roused throughout the
island, so much so that his own ancestor had withdrawn
to the mainland, like many others of the island
population.

When he had finished, many other speakers followed;
and at last it was resolved that the Captain
of the Wight should be asked to select such as would
be most serviceable in the cause, while such as could
not go should give of their substance to properly equip
the poorer sort.

So ended this memorable meeting; and, greatly
pleased with the success of the day, Lord Woodville
returned to Carisbrooke.

In the course of the next week, so many gentlemen
and yeomen presented themselves eager to go on
the expedition, that Lord Woodville and his officers
had some difficulty in making a selection.  But by
the end of the week forty gentlemen, and about four
hundred yeomen, were enrolled, and directed to hold
themselves in readiness to sail early in the following
week.

The excitement in the island was at this time
intense.  The inhabitants felt the eyes of England
were upon them; they felt proud of themselves and
of their gallant Captain; and there was scarcely a
family, whether rich or poor, which did not contribute
some member--in many cases several--to the forthcoming
expedition.

Ralph was very busy, like every one else in the
castle.  Weapons and armour were given out, drill
was incessantly going on, and all the tailors in
Newport were hard at work making surcoats for the
men-at-arms and archers.  Every man of the expedition
was to wear a white tabard with the red cross of
St George blazoned on it.

At last the important day arrived.  Ralph had
received permission to visit his relations the evening
before.  It was an exquisite spring evening, and the
scene was lovely as he rode over the long hill between
Newport and Wootton.[\*]  Before him lay the winding
creek embowered in thick oak woods--those woods
which gave the name to his kinsman's branch of the
Lisle family, and perhaps a name to the little hamlet
of Wodyton.  Beyond stretched the undulating land
which hid the Monastery of Quarr, whose deep-toned
bell was sounding to complines across the still woods
and glassy waters of the creek; while away in the
purple distance stretched the gleaming Solent,
unruffled by the slightest breeze, and bounded by the
dim Sussex shore.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] Wootton, in Domesday Book "Odetone;" called Wodyton in
Bishop Woodlock's Return of the Parishes in the Island;
Woditone in the account of the watches kept
in the 18th of Ed. II., and in Cardinal
Beaufort's Valuation, Woodyton;
and in the 8th of Ed. III. Wodyton.

.. vspace:: 2

Ralph rode down into the valley, where the grey
mist floated in mysterious wreaths, from out of which
the blue smoke of Briddesford Manor rose like a faint
column in the still atmosphere, only to hang above
the mist in a greyer cloud.

The young esquire felt sad for the first time.  He
found his cousin awaiting him in the dark old porch.
After a few words of friendly greeting, Ralph became
silent.

"Why, cousin Ralph, what aileth thee?" said his
cousin.

"I hardly know, sweet cousin mine, and yet I do
know, only thou wilt laugh at me; and so I would
not say what yet I fain would."

Yolande smiled a sad smile, but she said quietly,--

"Nay, fair cousin, say it not.  I know what thou
thinkest.  It may never be.  I told thee months
ago.  Thou wilt some day know how true I spoke.
We cannot all have what we wish; and even if we
could, we should soon wish for something else."

"Well, I would like to try," said Ralph bluntly.

"Ay, and so should I," sighed Mistress Yolande.
"But, Ralph, promise me thou wilt look well after
thy lord.  He is over venturesome, and, I fear me
much, he careth naught for life; indeed I sometimes
think he would rather go hence."  Yolande's voice
became tremulous.  She recovered herself after a pause.
"Thou wilt watch over him, Ralph?  I know not
why, but I feel I shall never look upon him more!"

And so his lovely cousin had no more words for
him than that he should take care of his lord?  No
matter, Ralph felt he only lived for her.  He would
willingly die to give her happiness.  He simply
answered,--

"I will do my duty."

They then went into the house, and Ralph took a
respectful adieu of old Sir William Lisle.

"Go forth, my kinsman, thou art a worthy son of
our noble house.  I would well that thou, when thou
returnest, shouldst take daughter and lands, and rear
up a stalwart line.  But it will be as God wills it.
Take my blessing, and go forth to victory."

So Ralph left his kinsfolk, sadder at heart than he
had ever been in all his life, but resolved to bring back
his lord in safety and glory to the Wight, or die with
him in France.

As he rode back over St George's Down--for he
took a longer way back, being in a dreamy and
melancholy mood--the soft light of the young moon shone
in the pale primrose of the western sky.  The night-jar
uttered its melancholy note, and flapped heavily past in
the silence of the evening, while a distant owl raised its
plaintive cry from the dark woods which faded in the
grey and ghostly mist of the northern valley.  This
was his last night in England.  How many would see
their homes again of all that gallant band of
high-spirited men?

But a step near at hand roused him from his reverie.
Two figures passed him almost unobserved.  The
slighter one turned to look, gave a little sigh, and
went on with its taller companion, who seemed to
walk with difficulty.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW THEY LEFT THE WIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THEY LEFT THE WIGHT.

.. vspace:: 2

The stirring sound of trumpets awoke Ralph at an
early hour the next morning.  All the castle-yard
was already busy with hurrying men-at-arms,
archers, and varlets.  Sir John Trenchard, Tom o'
Kingston, and the other officers were giving orders
and getting the men into their places.

The great gates of the castle were wide open, the
drawbridge was lowered.  Lady Trenchard and the
domestics of the Captain's apartments were looking down
from the oriel window.  The chapel bell was ringing,
and as many as could find room in the little building
were reverently assisting at the Mass, the last they
should ever hear in England performed by their
worthy chaplain, who was going with them.

In another hour the troops were drawn up, and a
fine body of men they looked.  All those from the
West Medene, or western division of the island, had
mustered at the castle.  Those from the East Medene
were to muster at St Helens, where the embarkation
was to take place.  But in spite of being little more
than half their strength, the small body of about
two hundred and fifty men looked very smart and
serviceable.

On the right of the line drawn up in the courtyard
were the men-at-arms, a body of some forty cavaliers,
armed from head to foot in complete plate armour,
and wearing the picturesque white tabard with the
red cross over their breastplates; behind these were
the custrils and grooms, all armed also, but with less
complete body armour.  All this body of cavalry
carried lances, daggers, and stout long swords, while
the men-at-arms, in addition, had the formidable mace
hanging from their saddle-bow.

Next to the men-at-arms, on their left, were the
mounted archers--a most serviceable force--nearly all
armed with back and breastpieces, over a stout leathern
jerkin, with plates of steel strapped on their sleeves
and thighs, and armed with round targets, crossbows,
slung behind their backs, long swords and knives.
On their heads they wore the salade, or open helmet,
with the gorget and chin-piece to protect their necks
and upper part of the chest.  Many of them wore
chain-shirts, or brigandines, under their steel
breast-plates, while these, like the men-at-arms, wore the
white tabard and red cross of St George.

The mounted archers rode stout ponies, called
hobbies, and were attended by another body of grooms,
drawn up behind them.  To the left of all were the
infantry, composed of the archers, armed with their
long bows, the celebrated weapon to which England
owed all her victories, and cloth-yard shafts hung in
their quivers, a stout sword on thigh, and a long keen
knife in the belt.  Some were protected by defensive
armour, but most were simply clad in leathern
jackets and stout leggings, with a steel cap on the
head.  Like all the rest of the force, they wore the
white tabard and red cross.  The billmen were armed
and equipped like the archers, without the long bows.
Behind this division were the grooms and camp followers,
while on the left of all were the pack animals
and baggage train.

A loud flourish of trumpets now proclaimed that
the Captain of the Wight was mounting at the door
of his hall, and in another minute Sir Edward Woodville,
in complete armour, only wearing a velvet bonnet
ornamented with an ostrich plume placed jauntily on
one side of his head, rode out in front of the line--

   |          "On his brest, a bloodie crosse he bore,
   |  The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
   |  For whose swete sake that glorious badge he wore,
   |  And dead--as living ever--him adored.
   |  Upon his shield the like was also scored--
   |  For soveraine hope, which in His helpe he had."
   |

Glancing down the line, and acknowledging the
general salute with which he was greeted, the Captain
of the Wight gave the order to march, and placing
himself with his esquires and pages in the centre of
the column, the little force moved off.  They tramped
over the drawbridge, amid the cheers of the small body
of men left to garrison the castle, and defiled down
the steep road to Newport.  The march through the
town was one long leave-taking.

Master Paxhulle looked at the cavalcade with
mingled feelings of satisfaction and chagrin.  He
was glad to have so formidable a rival as Tom o'
Kingston removed out of his way, but he did not at
all like to see the interest Mistress Bremskete took in
him, or the sobs of grief, intermixed with ejaculations
of admiration, which broke from her from time to time.

"Marry, Master Paxhulle, that's what I call a man.
Oh! when shall I see his like again?"

"Cheer up, Mistress Bremskete, there's a-many as
good as he, and much more likely to make an honest
woman comfortable."

"Nay, nay; 'tis a parlous brave man, and one of a
brave heart withal.  'Tis a tender man, and one as'd
let a woman have her own way.  And to think of his
going to be killed in France!"

"Nay!  Now nay!  Mistress Bremskete, 'tis the
French they're going to kill!"

"Ah, well, 'twill be a weary time for many a loving
heart 'till they be come back again."

And so it seemed, to judge by the weeping women
who were bidding their friends good-bye.  The head
of the column was now passing over Copping Bridge,
and their glancing spear-points and fluttering pennons
could be seen over the hedges of the long lane which
led up to the central ridge of the island.  After they
had mounted the crest of Arreton Down, which divided
the fertile and sunny vale of Newchurch from the dense
woods of the northern shores of the island, a glorious
view met their eye.  The gleaming bay of Sandown,
bounded by the beetling cliffs of Culver on the east,
looking like walls of ivory rising from the azure sea;
while on the west loomed up the grandly swelling
ridge of Boniface Down, and the dim headland of
Dunnose.  Below lay the fertile land, smiling in the
morning sun, with hamlet, farm-house, and church
nestling in sheltering copse or woody dell.

"'Tis a fair land and a rich," said Lord Woodville,
reining in his horse to look at the lovely view.  His
glance took in the steep acclivity above Appuldurcombe,
and rested upon the darker shadow which
marked where the little Priory stood.  With a sigh
the Captain of the Wight shook the reins of his horse
and turned to pursue his march.  He gave no look to
Briddelsford, which lay amid the northern woods, and
towards which Ralph was looking with wistful eyes,
and spake but little until they reached the end of
Ashey Down.

Then a cry broke from the head of the column, for
there lay the ships that were to take them over the
sea to the sunny land of France, and it came home
to all men that they might be looking on their own
fair home for the last time.

They descended to the valley below, and passing
through Ashey village they crossed the Brading road
a little to the north of that borough, where they were
joined by a large body of men led by young Oglander
of Nunwell; they then skirted the beautiful Brading
creek, until rising once more they reached St Helens
Green, and descended for the last time to the old
church by the sea.  Here they found all the rest of
the band, and a great crowd of relations and friends
come to bid them God speed.

Ralph revelled in the busy scene, and, together with
Dicky Cheke and Maurice Woodville, superintended
the embarkation of the baggage.  The four ships which
were to take over the expedition were lying in the
narrow channel at the entrance to Brading Haven.

As the expedition marched down the steep declivity
from St Helens to the sandy spit thrown up by
the winds and waves to form a breakwater for the
broad expanse of Brading Haven, the vessels were
being warped alongside the shingly beach.  The tide
was falling fast, and by the time the baggage animals
had reached the sea beach, the sea had left the wide
extending flat of sand and shingle, so as to allow of
all going alongside the flat-bottomed unwieldy hulks
of the transport vessels.

The work of embarkation went on all day, and by
the time the tide had risen over the beach again,
every one was on board.

It was an exquisite evening, and its still beauty
impressed all hearts.

Astern of Ralph's ship lay the three other
awkwardly-built, high-prowed vessels, the rising tide
seething past their anchor cables, which quivered and
vibrated in the rushing eddy.  Every rope and pulley,
mast and yard, and fluttering bannerole stood out
velvety brown against the pale primrose, the orange
gold, the purple and grey of the western sky, while the
still waters of that large mere reflected the solemn
shadowy hills, and the brilliant light of the departed
sun.  The grey green mist of evening was creeping
over the distance, and the evening star flickered its
glinting light across the purling water.  There was
silence in nature, but not in man.  Sounds of merriment
arose from the idly floating ships; songs and
laughter, and shouts to their friends upon the shore,
where the flickering firelight showed that many were
camping out to take the last view of their relatives.

Ralph could have wished to be alone: the noises
jarred upon his feelings.  He moved away from the
taffrail, where he had been sitting watching the bubbles
of the tide as it eddied under the stern post.

Dicky Cheke met him.  That youth had already
assumed quite a nautical air, and was casting his eye
aloft with all the assurance of an old sea dog.

"Well met, Ralph," he said.  "We shall have an
air o' wind anon, when the moon's set, and the tide's
done flowing.  You mark my words.  And hark ye,
my son, doubtless as this is thy first trip to sea thou'lt
feel squeamish a bit, I reckon.  Now, take my advice,
eat a hunk o' fat bacon, and quaff off a pint or so of
good ale; 'twill fortify thy stomach, and things won't
come so much amiss afterwards.  I'm going to have
a right merry feed with Maurice by-and-by.  Thou
hadst best join us."  And Master Cheke rolled off in
proper sea-going fashion, whistling, much to Ralph's
amusement.

But certainly that part of his remarks about the
breeze was true.  A crisp little puff came off the land,
blurring the soft reflection of wood and hill, and star
and purple sky; and as the tide had nearly done, the
skipper of the Captain's ship gave orders to weigh
anchor and set sail.

.. _`HOW THEY LEFT ST HELENS`:

.. figure:: images/img-294.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: HOW THEY LEFT ST. HELENS, I.W.

   HOW THEY LEFT ST. HELENS, I.W.

This was joyous news.  The cable was shortened
until it was nearly up and down.  The large jib was
run up to the foremast, and the foresail dropped down
from the yard, and with a "Yeo, heave, yeo, break her
out, my boys," the heavy anchor was hauled up to the
cathead, and the voyage had begun.  Slowly the ship
moved through the still flowing tide, but as each sail
was set, and the night breeze came stronger, she
gathered way and rippled through the whispering sea.
The vessels astern had followed the example of the
Captain's ship, and were stemming the tide behind.

Cheer upon cheer came from the shore, answered
by ringing shouts from the ships.  The decks and
rigging were crowded with lusty men, waving scarves
and caps, and cheering till the welkin rang again.

The enthusiasm was unbounded, and Ralph had
never felt such excitement, not even when he won the
prize of the tourney.

As the ship drew out from the land the breeze came
fresher still; and the creaking yards and bellying
sails, with the gurgling sound of the rushing sea, told
how well they were going.

Overhead the stars were shining in brilliant glitter,
and the dark outline on their right faintly indicated
their island home.  Should they ever see it again?
But scarce one of all that crew of lusty men gave a
thought to such a foreboding.  For them, life and
wealth, and name and fame, lay away in the south
across the sea, and the present was joyous.  What
more could they want?

"Well, Ralph, my son, we are well at sea now.
They'll be shifting over those cloths, I'm thinking, for
the breeze is coming more over her stern.  Ah!  I
thought so; look out for that lee sheet, thou hast got
thy leg foul of the slack.  I' faith! what a thing it is
to be a landlubber."

"Certes, Dicky, thou art a mariner--at least thou
thinkest so; but art sure all thy terms are rightly
applied?" said Ralph, laughing at the nautical Dicky,
who had now put on a suit of yellow oiled clothes,
and smelt very unpleasantly.  "Faugh!  Dicky, how
parlous nasty thou art! and why hast put on this
strange suit?"

"Certes, Ralph, thou art simple! 'tis a right proper
dress, and one that suiteth the sea; had I had time, I
would have bid thee get one too," said Dicky, who
secretly had determined to surprise his comrades by
his thorough knowledge of nautical matters, and would
not have told them beforehand for worlds.

They had now lost sight of the island, and the ship
was made snug for the night--strict discipline was
observed on board, and watches set, only the pages
were allowed to stay up on deck as long as they liked.

Dicky Cheke now prepared for his feast.  He chose
a sheltered place under the weather gunwale; and
finding three coils of rope ready to hand, he placed
his various luxuries in their protecting folds.  There
was a large game pasty, a very substantial ham, a
conserve of plums, and a cheese, with new bread and
a large jar of ale.

Ralph and Maurice Woodville sat down on some
old sails and helped to arrange the feast.  Dicky
Cheke had become more nautical than ever, and would
insist on walking about.  The breeze had gradually
freshened, and they were surging through the sea in
splendid style.  The other ships were hull down
astern, not one of them being such a fast sailer as the
ship which carried the Captain of the Wight.

Maurice Woodville had arranged the places, and
bid Dicky sit down.  But that young gentleman
would persist in showing them how well he kept his
feet in spite of the rolling of the ship, which was now
running through the strong eddies of St Catherine's.
However pride, as ever, goeth before a fall.  He was
bending down, with legs astride, to adjust the game
pasty before he opened it, when the ship gave a heavier
roll to port, and Master Dicky sat down abruptly in a
pail which Maurice Woodville had thoughtfully put
to catch him if he should fall.  Dicky's collapse
caused the pail to capsize, and the luckless youth,
together with the pail, went rolling over into the
lee-scuppers, bumping against the main hatchway in his
fall.

"Blessed Thomas!" ejaculated Dicky, "what in
the name of all sticky things is this?"  He had
caught hold of the fore halyards, and so recovered his
feet again, but he found he could not relax his
fingers: they were all glued together.  "Ralph!
Maurice! come hither!  I am bewitched!  There's some
vile trick been played upon me.  I am all stuck
together: my coat's sticking to my arms.  I can't
move my sleeves, and my hands are stuck to this
rope.  Mercy on me! come quick!"

But Maurice and Ralph were choking with laughter,
and could not, or would not, go to his help.  At this
moment, to make Dicky's discomfort still greater, the
ship gave a heavy yaw, and sank down in the trough
of a wave, while the man at the wheel brought her
head up again to the next sea somewhat too rapidly,
with the effect of sending a deluge of water over the
head of the unfortunate Dicky, whose hat had come
off, and was lying under the lee gunwale.  Dicky,
gasping, shivering, and spluttering, was violently
thrown off his legs, and waved in the air for a
moment; then he banged his shins against the sharp
end of a heavy iron cleat, uttering a howl of anguish;
and finally, with a violent wrench, he got his hands
free from the rope, and scrambled over the slippery
deck to his friends and guests.

"Well, Dicky, what's the matter with thee?" said
Ralph, scarcely recovered from his fit of laughter.

"Body o' me knows," said Dicky ruefully; "but
methinks I am bewitched.  I can't lift up my arms;
and oh! mercy!  I'm stuck together every way; and
and how the water does trickle down my neck.
Ugh! it's got down my back now: I feel it running down
my backbone.  Ugh! oh! hold on, one of you, or I
shall be off again," and Dicky grasped at the coil of
rope nearest to him, to save himself going backwards
once more as the ship rolled over again.

But he had caught hold of a treacherous support.
The rope flew out of the coil, and once more Dicky
rolled over.  But this was not the worst of the
mishap.  The ham, the conserve of plums, and the cheese
had been placed in this secure receptacle.  They were
displaced by the running rope, and followed the
struggling Dicky.  The cheese only hit him on the
nose, and rolled merrily on to join the hat, which was
floating in the salt water in an angle of the bulwark
stanchions, where both were quickly joined by the
ham; but the conserve of plums broke from its cover,
and the luscious fruit, with its fragrant but sticky
syrup, were thrown in the face of their miserable
owner.

"Oh! ah!" gurgled Dicky, as a large and mellow
plum caught him in the eye, already smarting from
the salt water, while further remarks were rendered
incoherent by another one going plop into his open
mouth.

Ralph and Maurice were in imminent danger of
joining the struggling Dicky.  They were convulsed
with laughter, and were totally incapable of helping
him.  At last Dicky once more scrambled up again,
very wet, miserable, and disconsolate.  He sat down
with his back to the gunwale, and broke out into
dismal grumbling.

"Well, you are scurvy knaves; you might at least
have lent me a hand; and--why, where's the cheese?
and I don't see the ham: it couldn't have been that
which hit me on the nose!  Oh, misery! and to think,
after all, that beautiful ham and cheese are gone
overboard!  I chose them both myself!  But perhaps
they're only over there to leeward.  Just step over,
Maurice, and see."

"Nay, Dicky, let's stow the game-pie first, 'twill be
best to get that out of the way," said Maurice, who
had been longing to begin on the noble pie before
him for some time.

"Marry! that's sound advice--hand it over here.
Why, what's gone wrong with my jacket?  I'm all
stuck together.  Oh, murder! whatever is this?"

Maurice again burst into a roar of laughter, which
made Dicky furious.

"Maurice, you addled egg you, what do you see to
laugh at?"

But Maurice only laughed the more.

"Ralph! rap him over the costard for me, and
then do thou cut that pie.  I'm too sticky to do it
myself; and, to tell truth, my appetite's a'most gone
with all this wet, and banging and shaking.  I don't
marvel I've got a headache, and feel a bit queer.
Ugh! oh! oh, my!  I wish she would not roll and
pitch so," said poor Dicky ruefully.

Ralph did as he was told, and by the bright light of
the stars and the lantern which swung in the rigging
aloft to show the Captain's ship, he cut a large slice,
and handed it to Dicky.  But poor Dicky shook his
head, and gave a little groan.

"I'll go and shift my clothes," he said, in a shivering
voice.  "I'm as wet as a drowned rat; and I can't
think why I am so parlous sticky.  I hope you
fellows will eat up the pie, and have a merry time,"
added poor Dicky bravely.

This touched Maurice.

"Certes, Dicky, you are out of luck.  But I'm
grievous sad I put that--"

He broke into a peal of laughter, and could not go
on, as he thought of the ridiculous scene.

"Well, Maurice, I don't see there's much to laugh
at," grumbled Master Cheke.

"Oh--oh--I'm soothly grieved," gasped Maurice
repentantly, trying to speak gravely, and then
bursting out into a fresh fit of uproarious mirth.

At this moment the gruff voice of a man in the
bows sung,--"Sail ho!"  "Where away?" rang out
from the Master.  "On the starboard beam," came
back the answer.  "She's bearing up to cross us."

"Lower away that lantern, and luff a bit--so,
steady," sung out the Master, who, after scanning the
strange sail, went below to tell the Captain.

In a few moments more the crew came tumbling
up the hatches, and the Captain of the Wight
appeared in his armour.

Ralph and his fellow-pages went hastily below.  The
report had spread through the vessel that the stranger
was a French ship, and that they intended fighting
her.  This was exciting news to the boys; they quietly
armed themselves, and were returning on deck, when
the piteous voice of Dicky Cheke stopped them.

"Oh!  I am so bad, and I can't get off my
coat!--whatever has come to it?"

"Why, it's all over tar," said Ralph.  "You've sat
down in a tar bucket."

Maurice's laughter again broke out uncontrolled,
but Dicky, who now saw the trick that had been
played upon him, made a sudden dash upon him, and
pushed his tar-covered elbow in Maurice's face, which
effectually stopped all further laughter, and the two
boys fell over on the floor of the cabin, tussling and
struggling, until a kick from the sergeant-at-arms
made them get up and separate; and a ludicrous sight
they both presented as they stood looking at each
other.  Dicky's yellow oilskin suit was all blotched
and stuck together by great splashes of tar, while his
hair and face were smeared with the same adhesive
substance.  Maurice was in very much the same
condition.  There was a large smear over his mouth and
nose, and one eye and the side of his cheek were
completely blackened.

"Well you be nice young gentlemen to be pages to
the Lord Captain," said the man-at-arms sarcastically.
"You'd best get some one to scrape you.  I'm too
busy;" so saying, the sergeant left them, to follow
Ralph on deck, where nearly the whole ship's
company was assembled under arms.

"They means to lay us aboard, my lord," said the
Master.

"Certes, let them," answered the Captain of the
Wight.

"Then all hands had best lie down--some along
the lee gunwale, but most under hatches--or else, as
they range up, they'll be afeared when they see how
strong we muster," said the crafty old seaman.

This order was promptly given, and in another
minute the decks looked as deserted as usual, only
the ordinary watch required for working a merchant
vessel being left visible.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OF LA "BEALE FRANCE"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   OF "LA BEALE FRANCE."

.. vspace:: 2

There was a faint, pale light away in the
north-east, telling of the coming dawn.  Looming
up dim and indistinct against the grey horizon,
Ralph, who was armed, and stood near the Captain
of the Wight, saw a dark hull and lofty sails.

The breeze was fresh, and they were now about
mid-channel.  The strange sail came topping the
waves, which curled and seethed under her broad
bow as she rose on their crests and dipped again in
the trough of the sea.  Swiftly she ran down before
the salt sea breeze, and a gallant sight she looked.

"You'd best hide the gleam of your harness, my
lord," said the old master, "or they'll be smelling
a rat."

Without stopping to inquire how a gleam could
assist a sense of smell, the Captain of the Wight,
accompanied by Ralph, stepped off the lofty poop
and took their stand under the lee gunwale.

"Luff!" sung out the Master, who was carefully
watching the movements of the stranger; and a cloud
of spray dashed over the bow as the head of the ship
came more round to the sea.

"That'll do; keep her going so.  Ay, ay, my beauty,
I sees ye; but ye need not be in such a hurry--we're
a-waiting for you, but 'twon't do to let you think it;
so now up with the helm, and let her fall off a bit.
There, keep her jogging like that: they'll be alongside
in another minute."

From where Ralph stood, by screwing his head a
little he could just see the top of the masts and the
round "crow's nests" in the "tops."  The main and
fore yards were braced square, and the great bellying
sails stretched out tight as drums before the fresh
breeze.  The masts looked so close, he thought she
must be aboard of them, and expected every moment
to hear a crash as her stem cut into the broad stern
of his own ship.

"Halloa! you there! you'll be aboard o' us an' you
take no more care," sung out the Master through a
speaking-tube.

But no answer came back; and Ralph was suddenly
startled by seeing a long black pole slowly come creeping
past the side of their ship, followed by a high black
mass, and then the whole of the fore part of the vessel
seemed to grow suddenly up abreast of where he was
standing.  He could plainly hear the sound of the
sea as it dashed against the bluff bows and hurtled
between the two hulls.

"Hola!  Messieurs les Anglais! rendez-vous," bawled
a hoarse voice.

"Come aboard, then, and take us!" called out the
Master, at the same time motioning to the helmsman
to put the helm down, so as to let her range alongside.

The two vessels were now broadside to broadside,
and were both surging through the sea.  The Frenchman
had shortened sail so as to keep alongside of the
Captain's vessel.  Ralph could see a crowd of people on
board.  In another moment a stout rope with a grapnel
attached was thrown on board the Captain's vessel
at the stern, and another caught in the fore chains
forward.  The two ships were now lashed alongside.

"'Tis all right now, my lord," called down the
Master; "I'll see to their not getting away while you
tackles them on deck."

The Frenchmen had already begun to board the
Captain's ship.  A burly Norman seaman, wielding
a formidable pike, had leapt over the bulwark on to
the deck, and was rushing forward to knock down
Dicky Cheke, who had suddenly caught sight of his
cheese, when the Frenchman stepped upon it and
instantly slipped up with a fearful exclamation.

"You villain! 'tis my cheese, and you have spoilt
it for ever!" shrieked Dicky Cheke, in a rage.

And without a moment's hesitation he drove his
sword into the Norman's body, amid the cheers of
Ralph and the crew, who had watched the scene.

But now the men-at-arms and archers came pouring
up from below.  The Captain, closely followed by
Ralph, sprang forward, shouting "St George for
England!"  And the Frenchmen, seeing they had caught
a Tartar, sprang back to their own ship, followed
fiercely by the men of the Wight.

The Frenchmen offered but a feeble resistance.
They were not nearly so numerous as the English,
and were armed with far less complete armour.  It
was an age of cruel reprisals, and it would have been
thought no reflection on the humanity of the Captain
of the Wight had he put the crew of the captured
vessel to the sword.  But beyond the few who were
killed in the first excitement of the moment, no further
bloodshed followed, and the French prisoners were
transferred to the Captain's vessel, while a sufficient
crew was placed on board the prize, with orders to
keep in company and sail for Guernsey.

This was a glorious beginning, and every one hailed
it as a joyous omen.

The glow of the coming sun flushed up over the
pale grey sky.  Creamy and crisp the crests of the
tumbling sea sparkled and flashed in the ruddy light,
and the sea dew glittered on spar and mast and
straining sail.

Ralph never tired of watching the bows of the prize
as she crashed through the curling waves, and he felt
more than ever the joy of the full pulse of healthy,
vigorous life.

Dicky Cheke had quite recovered his spirits.  He
felt his reputation was now firmly established, and he
was rendered quite happy by discovering his ham
inside his oil-skin hat.  It was soaked in salt water,
it was true, but, as he wisely remarked, that would
only improve the flavour, after it had been dried before
the galley fire.

The sun now rose out of the tumbling, restless sea,
and Ralph and the two boys went below to turn in
for a short sleep.  In another three hours a loud cry
on deck roused them suddenly out of their troubled
doze.

Hastening on deck, they saw a few dark specks, and
a high rock, over which the sea was dashing and
leaping; beyond it a black mass loomed up like a tall
hay-cock, and away over the grey sea was the dim
shadow of some high land.

"Where are we? what is it?" asked Ralph.

"'Tis Alderney, and yon is the Casketts, and the
Ortach; and there's a swingeing tide carrying us
through," answered an old seaman.

And so it seemed, for they flew past the rocks, and
staggered along before the still fresh breeze.

Ralph went below, and dozed off once more.  When
he awoke again the motion of the vessel had ceased,
but the noise on deck was great.

"Rouse up, Ralph," called Dicky Cheke.  "Here's
Guernsey, and we're to wait here for those heavy-sailing
tubs of ours, that haven't got as far as Alderney
yet, I'll warrant."

The whole of that day they spent at anchor off
Peter Port.  Ralph admired the grey castle Cornet,
and the picturesque outlines of Herm, Jettou, and
Sark, and marvelled greatly at the wonderful maze
of rocks.

About mid-day the masts of the other vessels could
be seen round the south-eastern point under St Martin's,
and in a short time they dropped anchor abreast
of the Captain's ship.  Their arrival was greeted by
loud cheers from the latter vessel, and the ringing
cheers which came back showed that the others had
seen the captured Frenchman lying inshore of the
Captain's ship, with the Cross of St George waving
over the Lilies of France.

The same evening they weighed anchor again, but
as the wind dropped, and the tide was on the turn,
the Master thought it better to run in for Jersey and
wait for morning.

The next day at early dawn, with a favouring
breeze, they once more weighed anchor, and stood out
of St Helier's Bay.  In another two hours they sighted
the high land of Cape Frehel, and with a fresh breeze
and flowing tide they entered the intricate channel of
St Malo.

"So, this is France, is it?" said Dicky Cheke.
"Marry, 'tis a barren place enough.  I thought they
called it a fertile land.  They must be parlous odd
plants as would grow on these bare rocks.  Did you
ever see such a lot of stones?  Why, they've so many
of them, they've been forced to throw them into the
sea, and so fill up their harbour; or did they place
them here to frighten strangers away?"

They were scudding past the Cezembre, and all its
dangerous reefs; past the Grand Jardin, and in a
short time had dropped anchor in St Malo roadstead.

The arrival of such a squadron as five English ships
was an event in the usually tranquil lives of the
inhabitants of St Malo.  The town was held for the
Duke of Brittany by a force of men-at-arms and
demi-lances, and a force of Swiss or Allemaynes, as
the English called them, had already arrived, sent by
the King of the Romans to assist his betrothed wife.

The Captain of the Wight was speedily visited by
the Governor of the place, and Ralph was delighted to
see, accompanying that official, his old friend the Sire
de la Roche Guemené, who greeted him with frank
courtesy, and welcomed him to Brittany.  The capture
of the French vessel was looked upon as a lucky omen.

In the course of the afternoon the vessels were able
to come into the harbour and lie alongside the quay,
when the Captain of the Wight landed in state, and
was escorted to his quarters in the town.

Dicky Cheke was in raptures at the size of the
town, there being no place at all to compare with it
in the Isle of Wight.  Southampton was the only port
with which he could compare it; and he was astonished
at the volubility of the French children.

"What scholars they be," he said.  "They all talk
French as easy as I talk English.  But--faugh!  I
say, Ralph, they like it strong about here.  Oh!  I
say, these French don't mind rank smells.  Phew!"

"Humph!  It is something out of the common,"
said Maurice.

But this was their first experience of French towns
and French sanitation.  Not that the towns of England
were much better in those days.  But the English,
like most Teutonic races, had a habit of spreading
their towns rather more, and the love of a plot of
ground, so inherent in the English mind, kept freer
currents of air in their back premises than in the
narrow, cooped up streets of the French municipalities,
hemmed in with lofty walls, and whose enormously
tall houses shut out all daylight from the streets below.

The next few days were occupied in drilling the
expeditionary force, and the Bretons admired the tall,
stalwart figures of the men of the Wight, their martial
bearing, and thorough equipment.

The knights and men-at-arms gave a tourney in the
level plain at the back of St Malo, in return for the
jousts which the Breton knights had given in
Carisbrooke Castle, and many gallant feats were done,
Ralph Lisle distinguishing himself greatly.  Both he
and the other young men enjoyed themselves very
much, and they won universal praise by their
courteous bearing and gallant looks.

Hawking and hunting, and the many duties of
garrison life, passed away the time pleasantly enough.
But Ralph longed for a more active scene.  He did not
care for dances and the gaieties of the lively French
society, and while Dicky Cheke was in his element
talking execrable French with easy self-assurance,
Ralph was moping on the ramparts, or leaning over
the parapet of the harbour mole, watching the fishing-boats
and the busy life of the crowded harbour.  He
made many expeditions up the Rance and among the
numerous islands of the rocky archipelago, and was
fast becoming a hardy sailor, well acquainted with the
set of the tides and the intricacies of the many
dangerous channels.  One long expedition he made with
Maurice Woodville as far as the harbour of Cancalle,
through the difficult passage of La Bigne, and gazed
upon the marvellous pile of Mont St Michel, rising
out of the desert of sand, and he longed to visit it.
But it was held by a French garrison, the most proud
and enterprising in all France; for there, in the noble
"Salle des Chevaliers," had been instituted in a solemn
chapter the Knights of the Order of St Michel, in
1469, to commemorate the fortress never having fallen
into the hands of the English, and to perpetuate the
brave defence of Louis d'Estouteville in 1427.

There was some danger in this trip, not only from
the sunken rocks and eddying tides, but from the
chance of capture by the boats belonging to the
garrison of Mont St Michel; and once they had a narrow
escape from one of these latter, for as they emerged
behind one great pile of granite they saw a boat drawn
up on the rocks on the other side, left high and dry
by the tide, and the crew were busy collecting
shellfish on the rocks below.  They heard one man shout
out, "Voila! les Anglois," and they saw the others
hasten up to look after them; but evidently they
thought it hopeless to try to catch them, as before
they could launch their unwieldy boat the light shallop
of the two boys would be far beyond their reach.  It
was a narrow escape, however, and Ralph determined
not to go so far away again.

There was no danger in making expeditions up the
Rance, for Dinan was garrisoned for the Duke of
Brittany, and all away to the west towards St Brieuc
and Treguier was faithful to its native prince.  One
day, as Ralph returned from one of these expeditions,
he was surprised to see a great stir in their camp.
The Allemaynes had already marched out, and their
long pikes and swaggering plumes could be seen over
the hedges, on the road to Rennes.  He hastened up
to the Captain's quarters, and learned that orders had
come to break up their camp and march at once to
relieve Fougéres.

This was joyful news.  The little force was by this
time perfectly disciplined, and in a very short time the
tents were struck.  The squad was drawn up, the
companies formed, and the column awaiting the order
to march.  The two Breton knights were directed to
accompany the English and act as guides.

The Captain of the Wight, in full armour, attended
by Sir John Trenchard and his esquires, put himself
at the head of the main body, and ordered his banner
to be unfurled.  The trumpets sounded, and the order
to march immediately followed.  To Ralph was
assigned the honourable post of accompanying Tom o'
Kingston with the advanced guard.

As they left the sea, the country became more and
more fertile.  Sunny orchards and rich pastures,
interspersed with pleasant farm-houses, bore witness to
the truth of the proverbial fertility of France; but
traces were also seen of the ravages of war.  They
were now approaching Dol, whose grey cathedral
could be seen to the east of a rising bluff, conspicuous
in the level landscape.  Great care was requisite in
passing this town.  The Swiss were halted in a
neighbouring field, and the whole force marched past the
walls in battle order, for Dol had lately been taken by
the French troops, and an attack might be made on
the column as it defiled past the grey old town.

As it was, Ralph saw for the first time in his life a
shot fired with murderous intent.  The garrison of
Dol, more from defiance than with hope of doing any
execution, trained a coleuvrine upon the head of the
column which was marching past with banners
displayed, drums beating, and trumpets sounding, in all
the insolent pomp and bravery of war.  But the shot
fell short, and a derisive shout was set up by the
Switzers and English archers.  The rest of the march
to Rennes was performed without further adventure.
They encamped the first night at the Chateau de
Combourg, near the little stream of the Dore, which
belonged to the Comte de Chateaubriand, who was
then marching upon Rennes with the Duke of Orleans,
and the rest of the army of the Duke of Brittany.

The hearts of all beat high as they approached
Rennes, and heard the sounds of martial music, and
saw the glint of spears, and flash of steel helmet and
polished cuirass.  Ralph felt very proud as he rode in
front of the English division, beside Tom o' Kingston,
clad in complete armour, and carrying his lance erect,
while he entered the streets of Rennes, the capital of
Brittany.  The populace had all turned out to see the
redoubted English and Swiss march through their
streets, as allies and friends, and they were greeted
cordially.  A very splendid appearance they presented.
The uniform of the men of the Wight, their
complete equipment, and their soldierly bearing, were
loudly admired, while the swash-bucklering air of the
Swiss pikemen, with their huge puffed leathern jerkins,
great bonnets lined with steel, and ornamented with
feathers, their long swords and stout pikes, excited
much astonishment, for this formidable mercenary
force was as yet only just beginning to be appreciated,
and had never been seen before in Brittany.

There were eight hundred of the Swiss, all wearing
the black imperial two-headed eagle on their padded and
slashed buff jerkins.  They marched through the city,
and were encamped outside the walls, on the north.

Fresh troops were continually arriving, and in three
days afterwards the main body, under the Duke of
Orleans, the Prince of Orange, and the Lord d'Albret,
marched into the city.  Ralph attended upon the
Captain of the Wight, who was sometimes called
Lord Rivers by the Bretons, and enjoyed the spectacle
of all this fine body of men and so many well-known
nobles and knights defiling before him.  There
was the ducal ermine of Brittany; the golden lilies
of France, with the silver label of Orleans--the lilies
quartering the purple of Albret, the silver bend sinister
abating the regal lilies of Dunois; and the red cross,
with its silver escallops, blazing in a golden shield,
with its azure eagles, for Laval.  Ducal, princely,
noble banners passed in gay procession before the eyes
of the delighted page, while the splendidly armed
cavaliers, attended by their esquires and varlets, rode
past at the head of their squadrons.  There were four
hundred steel-clad men-at-arms, and eight thousand
foot, with a large train of artillery, the first that Ralph
had ever seen for use in the field, for the English still
trusted to their own peculiar weapon, the famed long
bow of England, for winning victories in the open field.

In addition to the great names of the feudal chiefs,
there were other Breton lords.  The Marechal de
Rieux, lately returned to his allegiance to his lawful
Duke; the Lords of Chateaubriand, Leon, Crenettes,
Pont l'Abbé, Plessis, Balines, and Montigny Montuet,
and Ralph was astonished at the gallant show and
numbers of the Breton force.

He little knew what fatal jealousies were burning
in the hearts of those baronial figures as they proudly
rode past to the great square before the Parliament
House of Rennes.

There was a great council of war held in the ancient
steep-roofed building.  The Captain of the Wight
attended, and received a flattering greeting, as uncle of
the Queen of England, and son of the Lady of Luxemburg.
But it was at once apparent to his observant
eye how many difficulties were to be surmounted in
handling this heterogeneous band of high-spirited,
proud, and impracticable men.  There were present
representatives of five languages--the German, the
French, the Breton, the Basque, and the English;
while the guttural speech of the Gascon nearly made
a sixth.  And the aims and objects of their leaders
were as diverse as their tongues.  Two suitors for
the hand of the Duchess Anne were present in person;
the troops of a third were there to enforce his claims;
while opposed to them all were the armies of the
fourth candidate.  The jealousies of personal rivalry
were increased by the prejudice of race.  The Bretons
disliked and mistrusted the French.  The French,
with their *amour propre* and personal conceit, were
disgusted at the braggadocio and pugnacity of the
Gascons; and the English and Germans did nothing
to disguise their natural antipathy and contempt for
the Latin races; while the stubborn Breton opposed
with national and hereditary obstinacy every plan he
did not himself see the use of, or which would bear
directly upon the interests of his land.

After long debate nothing was decided; only the
differences of the Duke of Orleans and the Lord
d'Albret were rendered more conspicuous, and the
nobles dispersed to their respective quarters.

The following week was spent in inaction, much
to the disgust of the Captain of the Wight.  The
French army, under the celebrated young commander,
Louis de la Tremouille, Vicomte de Thouars, was
pressing hard upon Fougéres, and all men longed to
march to its relief.  At last all differences appeared
to be accommodated, and the Duke of Orleans, who
was appointed Commander-in-Chief, gave the order
for the army to march.  The following night the
whole force encamped at Andouille, a small village
half-way between Combourg and Fougéres.  Here
another two days were wasted in settling a somewhat
serious quarrel that had broken out at night between
the Gascon followers of the Lord d'Albret and the
French followers of the Duke of Orleans.  In the midst
of these bickerings, a dusty and heated messenger
arrived to say Fougéres had fallen, and that the
victorious French army was marching to attack them.

Instantly all was confusion.  But the startling news
had this good effect--all, with one consent, agreed
they must march at once on Orange, with a view to
occupying St Aubin du Cormier, which lay on the
direct road from Fougéres to Rennes.

They also hoped to be able to effect a junction with
the garrison of Fougéres, who had surrendered upon
terms that they might march out with bag and baggage.

But on reaching Orange, which was a small hamlet
some six miles from St Aubin, they heard that the
French army was close upon them.  They therefore
halted, and spent the night there, prepared to fight
a decisive battle the next day.

"Well, Ralph, we shall see some fun to-morrow,"
said Dicky Cheke.  "'Tis Sunday, too; our good
folks at Mottestone will be in church."

"Ay, and where shall we be?" said Ralph thoughtfully.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OF ST AUBIN DU CORMIER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   OF ST AUBIN DU CORMIER.[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] So called from the Service Tree,
or Serb Apple Tree, which grows
in profusion all round the village,
and to distinguish it from St Aubin
d'Audigné nearer Rennes.

.. vspace:: 2

The grey mists of early morn were clinging to
the dank earth when Ralph awoke after such
snatches of sleep as he could get amid the noise of
that large body of ill-assorted men.

It was Sunday morning, the 27th of July--a day
Ralph well remembered, for it was this very day a
year ago he had left his father's house to seek his
fortune in the household of the Captain of the Wight.
What events had taken place since then!  He thought
of it all, and his heart beat as he turned to look over
the leafy woods, the steep slopes of the hilly country,
with its fresh valleys, whence, amid the rich foliage
of orchard and copse and wide-reaching forest, the
spires of the village churches and the steep gables of
nestling farm-houses rose above the steaming verdure,
or peeped out in shy suggestion.  The birds were
warbling blithely all around.  There was a tinkle of
distant bells, a hum of awakening life, and the soft,
warm fragrance of a midsummer night still floated
in the balmy morning air.

Ralph could not believe that in another few hours
he and all that host of lusty, careless men would
be fighting for fame and name, and very life itself.
He had only twice had experience of the fierce
struggle of deadly fight.  But his whole training had
accustomed him to it, and he gave little thought to
the battle.  But the deep bells from a neighbouring
monastery stirred softer thoughts.  He thought of his
mother and father, of Thruxton Manor away over the
sea, and then of his cousin Yolande and his promise.

But the trumpets sounding the *réveille* interrupted
all softer thoughts.  The reality of life had begun.

"Well, Ralph, my boy," said the cheerful voice of
Dicky Cheke, "'tis a fine morning for our sport.
Marry, I trust you and I will win our spurs to-day.
But come to breakfast.  There's a right pleasant
smell of fried eggs and bacon over yonder, and thy
man Humphrey hath gotten a rare fat capon out of
some farm hard by.  I've asked young De Rohan to
come and share with us, 'twill improve thy French;
only he talks it with such a sad Breton accent I fear
me he will mar my fine tongue.  But come along--there
he is."

Ralph sauntered back with Dicky.  The four boys
were soon laughing and talking over their breakfast.
The young Seigneur de Rohan was a merry addition
to their party, and kept them in constant laughter by
his attempts to talk English.

By eight o'clock orders came from the Duke of
Orleans for their division to prepare to march.  There
had been a very stormy council of war, and the
suspicions of the Breton infantry were so strong, that to
quiet them it was arranged that the Duke of Orleans
and the Prince of Orange should dismount and fight
on foot among the pikemen, a very dangerous service,
and one which showed their courage in the highest
degree.  But the jealousies between the infantry and
cavalry had reached such a high pitch, that it required
very strenuous exertions to prevent the former marching
off the ground; the Bretons affirming that the
French princes only used them to make cat's-paws
of them.

Young De Rohan astonished the pages by saying
that seventeen hundred of the Breton infantry were
going to wear the same uniform as the men of the
Wight, in order to make the French think there were
more English than there were.  This was a great
compliment, and rejoiced Dicky's heart, for he knew
how much more important the Captain of the Wight
would be if he commanded two thousand instead of
four hundred men.

In another hour the whole army was equipped and
marching to its position to the right of a vast forest,
the Forêt de la Seve, and there was already promise
of the great heat the coming noon would bring.  The
bells of Orange were sounding for morning service,
and the faint tinkle of the other village bells could
be heard over the forest and hills.  A deep blue sky
spread overhead, and a mellow haze floated over the
horizon.  There was scarcely a breath of air, and the
banner of the Captain of the Wight hung in white
and crimson folds down its gilded shaft.

The men of the Wight were now drawn up--the
men-at-arms on the right, the infantry in the centre,
and the mounted archers on the left.  All were
completely armed, and they had now become a thoroughly
well-disciplined, splendid body of men, typical of the
British army--"The best in the world, if only there
were more of them."  The Captain of the Wight,
mounted on his black charger, armed like himself in
full plate-armour, rode in front of the line, and glanced
down it with martial pride.  Only a few words he said,
but they were fiery, knightly, encouraging words, such
as a brave leader and chivalrous knight knew how to
say.  He told them of the compliment the Duke of
Orleans was paying them in reinforcing them with
seventeen hundred Breton foot all clad to look like
Englishmen.  He reminded them of Crecy, Poictiers,
and Agincourt.  He bid them think that the eyes of
England, of France, and of their own dear island
home were upon them; and he bid them fight as
became the ancient valour of their name and race.
Their quarrel was a just one, and their foe the natural
enemy of their hearths and homes.

"Men of Yaverland and Brading, remember Sir
Theobold Russel, and how he died for you.  Men of
Newport, remember Deadman's Lane and Neddie's
Hill.  Men of Yarmouth and Newtown, remember
your burning homes and ruined boroughs.  Men of
the Wight, you are here to show your manhood, your
skill, and your hardihood; that Frenchmen may see
and feel how vain are their vapourings, how keen are
our swords.  And here before you all, in the glorious
light of that splendid sun, I draw my blade, vowing
never more to sheath it till the victory is won, or my
hand can hold it no more."

As the Captain of the Wight spoke, his sword-blade
flashed in the sun, while he held it aloft over
his crested helm.

A ringing cheer answered these stirring words, and
Dicky Cheke murmured to Ralph,--

"In sooth, he is a hero, this Captain of ours, and I
am sorry for the French.  We won't be too hard on
them, Ralph.  I sha'n't ask for more than a couple of
thousand crowns for my prisoners, unless I take the
Sire de la Trimouille himself, and then, as it won't do
to spoil the market, I must make him pay a good
round sum--perchance fifty thousand pistoles, or so;
only I will let him off the last ten if he pays up well;"
and Dicky Cheke became quite pensive as he thought
how he would spend his money, and bumped against
Sir John Trenchard, who had ridden down the line
with the Captain to inspect the men.

And now the Breton infantry marched up, all clad
alike, and the eye of their commander kindled as he
welcomed them to his battalion.

"They are sturdy little fellows," said Dicky,
surveying them with a critical air.  "But they want
beef; they haven't got our breadth of chest and
length of limb."

"You atom, you imp, you," said Maurice Woodville,
"when will you be done with your coxcombery?
Why, they are all big enough to eat you, boots and all."

"Now, Maurice, none o' your sauce.  You've never
been the same varlet since you fell into the mud at
St Malo, when you were so frightened by the old
cherry woman from whom you filched those cherries."

Maurice was going to give Dicky a cuff, only Sir
John Trenchard happened to look round, and he drew
in his hand again, muttering, "I'll give it you
afterwards; you look out this evening."

But all further talk was put an end to by the arrival
of the Marechal de Rieux, an old and experienced
warrior, who had lately had his castle and town of
Ancenix burned to the ground by the French, and
who was eager to revenge himself upon his enemies.
He saluted the Captain of the Wight and his division,
and briefly exchanged a few words with the former.
After which Lord Woodville turned to his escort and
said with satisfaction,--

"We have been paid one more courtesy.  We are
to be the vanguard of the army, and the very puissant
knight the Comte de Rieux is to lead us."

The order to march now came, and the whole
division broke into column, and took the road to St
Aubin, the old Marshal and the Captain of the Wight
with drawn sword riding at their head.

After marching some three miles, and when the
houses of St Aubin du Cormier were just visible over
the orchards, they came to a highroad which their
road intersected.  Here a halt was called, and the
men were allowed to refresh themselves.  The heat
was getting very oppressive.

Ralph and Dicky Cheke wandered off to see the
rest of the army come up.

"Oh, I wish I had put a cabbage leaf inside my
helmet," groaned Dicky.  "I shall be roasted like a
chestnut inside its coat.  I'm stewing in my own
juice--oh!"

"'Tis a lucky chance we are wearing tabards; look
at those men-at-arms riding with my Lord d'Albret;
they must needs be grilled.  They've neither lambrequin
nor surcoat, and shine in the sun like fresh-caught
mackerel," answered Ralph.

"What a fine lot they all look! and look at those
Allemaynes!  I do like those swash-bucklering varlets.
Certes we are a fine show!  I get more and more
pitiful when I think of those jackanapes of Frenchmen
yonder.  If only they knew it, how much better it
would be, and what a lot of waste of moist humours
it would save, if they just came in and sorted
themselves out among us.  What a comfort it would be!
Ugh! how parlous moist I am!"

"Look, Dicky, at those coleuvrines and dragons!
I am all agog to see them fire; we've a right plentiful
store of artillery, I trow!" said Ralph.  "Not but
what I don't believe our archers are worth a hundred
of them, and more, too; but we shall see.  Oh, I wish
they would begin.  Where are the French, I marvel.
Look, our men are falling in; let's hasten back.
There's something going on."

And so there seemed.  The English division, forming,
with some Breton men-at-arms and the seventeen
hundred infantry, the vanguard of the army, was
standing to its arms.  The cavalry were mounting,
and a body of mounted archers was thrown forward
under Tom o' Kingston.

The rest of the army had come up, and the main
battle, or middle ward, as it was called, under the
Lord d'Albret, in which was the fine body of Swiss
infantry, conspicuous among whom were the Duke of
Orleans and the Prince of Orange, was drawn up to
support the vanguard.

The rear ward was commanded by the Comte de
Chauteaubriand, whose castle had also been lately
razed to the ground by the army of Charles VIII.
The artillery was brought up and placed upon the
flanks of the vanguard, and a small body of mounted
archers was drawn up in support of the clumsy
cannon.

As the two boys rode back to their lord, they could
see the general disposition of the army, and their
hearts beat high with pride and excitement.

"This is something like!" said Dicky.  "They'll
think great things of us at home when I tell them.  I
would give a crown our old varlet, Nick Goodall, saw
me here.  He'd never say I wasn't good for much
again.  Ah! and I wish that saucy little wench who
called me a tom-tit could just see me too.  Tom-tit,
indeed!  Tom-tit, quotha!"

When they reached their own division, they saw
the mounted archers halted on the brow of the rise
in front, and the burly form of Tom o' Kingston sitting
his powerful horse, with lance resting on his steel
solleret.

The sun was now pouring down its unclouded heat.
The divisions of the army were all in battle array at
half a bow-shot's length from each other, and were
echeloned along the high road from Fougéres to
Rennes, with the great wood of La Seve in their
rear.

As Ralph, sitting his horse, his cousin Yolande's
present, by the side of the Captain of the Wight,
turned round to look at the splendid sight behind
him, where helm, and crest, and spear point flashed
in the glowing sun, and where the gay banners of the
nobles gently fluttered in the light summer air, he
heard a whizz, and turned quickly round.

"Hullo, Ralph!" said Maurice Woodville, "what's
that archer tumbled off his horse for?  Is he in a
swoon from the heat, think you? and look, they're
beginning to shoot.  Why, it must be the enemy on
the other side of the hill."

"We shall know directly.  Look, there's old De
Rieux going forward, and so are we.  Now, Dicky,
you'll get your money, look to your lance," said
Ralph, as the Captain of the Wight and his esquires
put spurs to their horses and rode up to the crest of
the hill.

"Ma foi, c'est de l'Hôpital, et ses gaillards.  Je le
connais par ses armoiries.  Et voila!  Gabriel de
Monfalzois, c'est lui, a gauche, le petit, monté sur le
grand hacquené.  Aha! mon rusé soudard, c'est toi
qui a brulé mon chateau," said the Marechal de
Rieux, pointing to a squadron of men-at-arms who
had halted out of bow-shot in the valley below.  Two
or three arbalisters had dismounted, and one had
advanced within shot, and it was his quarrel which had
struck the English archer off his horse; but Ralph
was delighted to see a shot from one of their own
men, who had also dismounted, take effect on the
Frenchman, for he threw up his hands and fell to the
ground.

"Who's that?" said Lord Woodville, who had seen
the shot.  "What! is't thou, David Urry? here's a
gold piece for thee for having dropped the first
Frenchman to-day."

"Shall we charge them, my lord," said the Captain,
turning to the old baron.

"Mais non, milord, ce n'est rien," replied the tough
Marshal.

The vanguard, however, was advanced to the brow
of the hill; the cannon were also brought forward,
and the enemy retired.

Another hour of broiling heat ensued.  The men
became restive.  Murmurs at this prolonged inaction
could be heard on all sides; and here and there the
cry so fatal to French arms, and, at the same time
so useful to explain their defeats, was heard--"Nous
sommes trahis."

At last, about one o'clock, the gleam of lances
could be seen among the trees which skirted the road
below, and the cloud of dust, which rose above the
foliage, told of a moving host.

"They're coming now, Dicky," said Ralph; "we
shall soon begin."

"Poor fools!" said Dicky, contemptuously; "I am
sorry for them; but, after all, 'tis what we've come
for.  I shall keep my eye on a knave in a good suit
of armour, and well mounted, too.  None of your
scurvy beggars for me.  And, Ralph, I'll stand you a
good supper to-night, if I am not all melted away.
Marry, I am hot!"

"Look at the cannon they are bringing up," said
Maurice.  "Humph!  I hope our fellows will knock
them over."

"They've brought them near enough.  Why ever
don't our knaves begin?  Ah! there they go," added
Dicky, as a flash and cloud of smoke flew out, and a
loud report followed, causing all the horses of the
men-at-arms to prance and rear, and unseating several
of their riders.

"Well, that did do a parlous deal of harm! there's
more off on our side than there is on the other," said
Dicky.  "But, mercy on us, what a whizz!" he
added, ducking his head; "whose head's off, I
marvel!" as a round shot came hurtling through
the air, without doing any harm, however.

"We'd best retire our men behind the brow of the
hill," said Lord Woodville.  The division was, therefore,
ordered back a few yards, and moved a little to
the right, so as to be out of the line of fire.

The artillery duel greatly amused the boys, and
Dicky longed to dismount and catch one of the iron
balls as they came bounding along, until he saw one
strike a stout Swiss pikeman, and knock him down,
where he lay a dreadful sight.

"Certes!  I'm glad I thought better of it," said
Dicky.  "Who'd have thought there was such might
in those bumping iron bowls."

"'Tis a game where you'd best not be a ninepin,"
said Ralph; "but when are we to move?  Oh!  I am
roasted alive!  I would I could look over the brow of
the hill and see what our artillery is doing.  Ah! there
goes another.  Mercy on us! but it's knocked
over four at once--and--ah! 'tis a fearful sight.  How
they writhe!  Poor wretches!  Look! there's Tom o'
Kingston down, and Oglander, and--ah! why don't
we charge; they've got our distance.  Ah! they've
stopped, thank the saints!" and Ralph became calmer
as the noise ceased.

"Look, Ralph, there's a smash!  Cannon, and
master gunner, and all, gone to bits.  What a shot!"

But this was the last shot.  The smoke blew away,
causing Dicky to sniff and sputter at the smell of the
saltpetre.

"Faugh, what a foul mixture.  Phew!  Ah, it's got
down my throat.  Hullo, what are we up to now?
Oh, I see, we're to become footmen.  Well, I'd rather
be a-horseback.  But there, there; it's all one in this
roasting heat.  Body o' me, I'm swimming in my
harness."

But only the Captain of the Wight, and Ralph, with
the rest of the esquires, and the Marshal de Rieux,
dismounted.  Dicky Cheke and Maurice Woodville
were ordered to take their lords' horse, with the other
animals, to the rear, and bring them back when the
fight was over.  This was grievous news to the two
boys.  But there was no help for it, and they retired
with a very crestfallen air.

The dismounted knights and esquires had barely
time to get inside the square of pike men when the
fluttering pennons of the enemies' men-at-arms could
be seen over the brow of the hill.

"Here they come," said Tom o' Kingston, who had
had his horse killed under him, but was not otherwise
hurt.  "Now, my knaves, think what they'll say
at home, and let us play the man."

.. _`HOW THE MEN OF THE WIGHT WITHSTOOD THE FRENCH`:

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   :alt: HOW THE MEN OF THE WIGHT WITHSTOOD THE FRENCH.

   HOW THE MEN OF THE WIGHT WITHSTOOD THE FRENCH.

And now the serried ranks of the French men-at-arms,
their helms well down, the shields before their
left arms, and with lances in rest, came cantering over
the rise in front.

"Now, archers, let fly your shafts," cried the
Captain of the Wight, and a twanging sound instantly
followed, for every archer knew what was coming, and
had already put his arrow on the string.  The rushing
sound which fluttered in the air was succeeded by a
splintering crack or dull thud, or heavier groan, as the
shafts flew home.  And many a gallant man-at-arms
fell to the ground in the death sob.  But still fresh
ranks came topping the hill, and fierce shouts arose.
"A bas les Anglais!  Tuez les!" from the steel-clad
figures who cantered onward in grim resolve.

Some few of the foe would not be refused, and in
spite of cloth yard shaft and sturdy pike, pushed
home into the first ranks of the square, but only to
perish under the daggers of the footmen, or be kept
as prisoners to be held to ransom afterwards.

The bravery of these men-at-arms was very conspicuous.
They rode up to the face of the square and
thrust fiercely with their long lances at the pikemen,
and bodies of two or three would charge at full speed
upon the halberds, and then leap their horses over the
first ranks.  But the men of the Wight stood firm, and
although a heavy groan or occasional scream would
tell of a deadly wound or ghastly thrust, no opening
had been made, and still the grey goose shaft did its
deadly and silent work.

"Well done, my merry men," called out the clear
voice of the Captain of the Wight.  "We will tell of
this round many a cheerful yule-tide fire."

But Ralph did not like this way of fighting.  He
had pictured the battle to himself as a charge of
gallant knights, where individual prowess would have a
chance of distinction.  As yet he had exchanged no
blows, and he longed to get out of the stifling mass of
crowded infantry.

There now came a lull.  The closely thronging
men-at-arms seemed daunted by the bold face of the
English footmen.  They drew off, and retired behind
the brow of the hill, followed by the deadly arrows of
the archers.

"Bravo, Messieurs les Anglais," said the deep voice
of the tough old Marechal de Rieux.  "I vish nevare
to be vid more better fantassins.  I mak you mes
felicitations."

The hill became thick with lances, and a tall and
very graceful knightly figure could be seen riding
amid a press of splendidly armed knights.

"Aha, voila, Monsieur de la Trimouille!  C'est un
jeune homme tres capable, et un chevalier sans peur
et sans reproche.  Il est Capitaine pour le Roi, et
Vicomte de Thouars.  Enfin notre affaire, va commencer!"

The cavalry seemed now to avoid the vanguard, and
the men of the Wight had every reason to be proud
of themselves.  They had driven off the foe, and had
made themselves respected.  Most of the young men
of the Wight thought the victory was won, and
exchanged many a merry jest at the expense of the
defeated French.





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.. _`HOW "THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST WERE A' WEDE AWAY"`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI.


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   HOW "THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST WERE A' WEDE AWAY."

.. vspace:: 2

In this pause of the battle, Dicky Cheke and
Maurice Woodville, with the custrels and
varlets who were looking after the horses of the
dismounted knights and esquires, took refuge in the
square, and the men began to take the affair a little
more easily.

The dismounted knights got on horseback again, and
Ralph was delighted to see that the time was coming
when they would be the attacking party.  He longed
to break a lance with some of those swaggering French
men-at-arms who rode past them, waving their spears
and jeering them with taunting words.  But the time
had not come yet.  In the interval the wounded were
attended to.  Surgical science was at a very low ebb,
but what little the surgeon-barbers did know, was
applied to the relief of the sufferers, most of whom,
however, bled to death.  The men of the Wight had
hitherto suffered very little; two men had been killed
outright by a cannon-ball, and some dozen or so had
received more or less serious lance thrusts.  The men
who served the artillery, however, had been very
severely handled, and the Isle of Wight men, few of
whom had seen cannon-shot wounds, were shocked
at the awful results of those few minutes of artillery
practice at close quarters.

Clumsy and badly served as those primitive guns
were, the execution they did was murderous; and the
Captain of the Wight, who possessed such large
experience of mediæval warfare, noted the change those
deadly weapons must produce, and determined to
urge upon King Henry the importance of employing
more largely in the field these engines of destruction.

Dicky, Ralph, and Maurice were all mounted and
standing together.  From their superior position on
horseback they could see through their visors all that
was going on, as far as it was possible to make out
anything in that forest of spears.  The boys could
not understand why they stood inactive spectators.

"Marry, Ralph, why don't we give it these varlets
as they ride past us?  A good charge now would
knock over dozens, and I am longing for my prize-money.
Look at that fat Frenchman! did you ever
see such a jack-pudding?"

"T wish I could make out what is going on," said
Ralph, who had been trying to pierce the bewildering
masses of steel-clad men, who seemed never to end
as they trotted past with lance on hip and fluttering
pennon.  "Hullo, here come the footmen; now look out."

But the free archers only drew up out of bow-shot,
and watched the men-at-arms.  It was evident by
their gestures they could see something the vanguard
could not see.

The Captain of the Wight seemed uneasy and
restive.  He was urging something in a low tone
on the old Marshal de Rieux, who only shook his
head and muttered,--

"Pas à present; ce n'est pas le moment."

"Then it will never be the moment," said the Lord
Woodville impatiently.  "Look there!"

"Body o' me, Ralph!" said Dicky in consternation,
"the Bretons and Gascons are running away.  Look,
there goes the banner of Laval; down goes the golden
flag with its fiery cross and blue eagles; there goes
d'Albret.  Fie on its golden lilies and purple flag!
where are Orleans and Orange!  Look! the Allemaynes
are being cut down.  Mercy on us! see how
the sword-strokes flash.  Why don't we charge?"

The impatience of all the men of the Wight became
very great.  They uttered their grumblings aloud.

"Let's charge them, my Lord Captain.  Don't be
kept back by that old dotard of a Frenchman.
He's changed sides twice; maybe he'd fain do it a
third time."

This was a very awkward suspicion, and one at
such a moment most sinister in its influence on the
minds of the English and Breton troops.

The Captain of the Wight saw he could restrain
them no longer.  He also longed to take an active
part in the battle.  He turned to the Marechal de
Rieux.

"Sir, I can keep my people together no longer.
We must charge and retrieve the fortunes of the day,
or die in the attempt."

"Comme vous voulez," said the Marshal, shrugging
his shoulders.  "Mais tout est perdu.  On ne peut plus."

The Captain of the Wight turned in his saddle--he
raised his sword.

"Men of the Wight, now is our time.  Men-at-arms,
close your ranks.  Archers and billmen, prepare to
charge.  Let all men follow me."

A loud and ringing cheer broke from all that eager
band of armed men, and with a fierce alacrity the
square broke up.  The little force of men-at-arms in
front, the infantry forming their serried ranks behind.

"'Tis too late!" muttered Tom o' Kingston, and
many of the older and cooler heads agreed with him.

"'Twould be better to march off the field as we are,"
said Sir John Trenchard; "they'll never dare to touch
us--they've had too much of it already, and we could
join the garrison of Fougéres, who are marching upon
Rennes."

But these experienced soldiers kept their grumblings
to themselves, and prepared to do their duty,
even though they knew death to be the reward.

As Dicky Cheke rode behind his chief, he noticed
a wounded archer, and was struck by his calm courage.
The man had lost one leg from a cannon shot, but
he was still sitting up supporting himself on the other
and shooting steadily at the French.  When he saw
his comrades were about to leave him, without a word
or thought of himself, he called out to his comrade,--

"Dickon, have thou mine arrows, I can go no
more.  There are still three left.  Take them and
riddle yonder Frenchmen.  Give my love to Sue,
poor lass!  I'll just lay me down a while."

And so the archers parted; and Dicky rode on
more grave than he had ever been in his life.

"Ralph," he muttered; "Ralph, dear boy, if I
should be left behind too, there's a gold chain I
would like thee to have, and my goshawk, she's
been well trained, and thou wilt be kind to her, I
know.  There's little Alice, my sister, too, give her
my bells and jesses; and to mother--No, certes,
Ralph, I'll not play the girl.  Art not ashamed of
me, Ralph?" and Dicky tried to whistle a tune, but
it only came in a melancholy pipe from out his
barred helm.  "Marry, 'tis the heat," said Dicky
ruefully.

"Nay, Dicky, cheer up.  There's thy Frenchman
in the gay armour a-head.  Think of the ransom
thou art going to get."

"Ah, Ralph, my boy, methinks 'tis the ransom
Sir John Merlin told us had been paid for all of us
long years gone by that I shall win to-day.  I wish
I had paid more attention to my prayers--But
marry, come up! here we go!  Oh! this is
something like!  Have at them!  A Cheke! a
Cheke! say I.  St George for merry England!--Ah!"

His voice suddenly changed, and the poor boy
reeled in his saddle, as a fierce and burly French
man-at-arms drove his lance into his corslet and
broke off the point.  Dicky's head fell forward.  He
dropped his lance and clutched the pommel of his
saddle.  Everything swam before his eyes, and he
fell from his horse with a groan.

But Ralph had well revenged him.  His lance
caught the Frenchman under the gorget, driving the
chain shirt into his neck, and bore the man-at-arms
out of his saddle to the ground.

The melée had now become fierce.  The French,
who were well handled by their skilful young leader,
the Vicomte de Thouars, who was only twenty-seven
years old, had kept a body of men-at-arms behind
their infantry in reserve, and to watch the movements
of the Breton vanguard.  This fine body of troops,
under the celebrated James Galliotti, seeing the
change of formation of the square, charged at once,
and took the vanguard in flank.  The infantry were
cruelly handled, and orders were issued to spare not
a single man who wore a red cross.  Out-generalled,
and abandoned by the rest of the army, for the main
battle had been utterly broken, the Swiss pikemen
were doggedly holding their ground, or slowly retiring
before the fierce onslaught of the French, while the
rearward, seeing how hardly the battle was going,
had fled without striking a blow.  The men of the
Wight and their Breton comrades were gallantly
upholding the honour of their race.  Shoulder to
shoulder, and back to back, the pikemen stood,
fiercely exchanging thrust for thrust with the eager
warriors of Gaul.  But numbers were against them,
and gradually their ranks were thinned.

The Captain of the Wight, boldly seconded by his
knights, esquires, and men-at-arms, had plunged into
the midst of the French cavalry.

Three knights the Lord Woodville had himself
unhorsed, his lance was gone, but his sword still
flashed, and rose and fell, and Ralph still rode beside
his lord.

Seeing how fierce was the little band of men around
the Captain of the Wight, the French men-at-arms
turned aside to easier conquests, and the battered and
wounded knights and esquires were fain to rest grimly
on a little rising ground they had gained to the right
of the battle-field.

How different was the scene from the morning.
Of all that gallant, gay, and careless army, no
coherent mass remained.  The dusty road was covered
with piles of dead and dying men.  Broken pikes,
splintered lances, pools of blood lay all around.
Here and there fainting men, sore stricken, leant
upon the end of their halberds, or sank swooning to
the ground.  A weary group of English still held
together, and repelled the relentless onslaught of the
French; but they had no hope, and had nowhere to
go.  No quarter was offered or asked, and their only
object was to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

Ralph looked wearily round.  Dicky Cheke had
gone.  Maurice, poor lad, could scarcely sit his horse.
His head ached, and his pulses throbbed with the
fearful heat of the day, and he had received a terrible
blow from a bill across his thigh.  The taces of his
armour had saved his leg, but it had shorn away the
upper part of his genouilliere, or knee-piece, and
exposed the bone of the knee.

Ralph himself was badly wounded on the left arm,
but he could still wield his mace.  His sword had
been broken long ago, and he knew scarcely anything
of the fight.  His head swam, and he felt giddy and
faint.  The Captain of the Wight was also desperately
wounded, and had raised his visor for more air.  Tom
o' Kingston leant forward on his horse's neck, and Sir
John Trenchard reeled in his saddle.  Master Meux
had gone.  No other knight or esquire remained.
They could be seen, easily distinguished by their
white surcoats and red crosses, lying still and
motionless, either apart or amid a pile of their enemies.

At this moment a fresh body of men-at-arms, among
whom were two or three knights in very rich armour,
rode back from the pursuit of the flying Bretons.

"They give us no quarter: let us die in harness,"
said the Captain of the Wight.  "Yonder are all that
are left of our gallant fellows; let us go and die with
them."

No one answered.  Ralph still thought of his
promise.  Although Yolande would never know it, he
would save his lord from death, or die with him.  But
they were utterly weary with fighting.  Their arms
were stiff and nerveless.  Ralph could form no
thought, he only kept saying to himself, "I will do
my duty, I will do my duty."

"Now, gentlemen," said the Captain, in a voice
still clear and resolute, although feeble from pain and
weariness, "this is the last time we shall speak to
each other on earth.  My friends and comrades, do
you pardon me for having brought you into such
great misery?  I humbly ask your forgiveness, and
it sore repenteth me of the dolour I have caused."

"My lord, say no more," said Sir John Trenchard:
"may God assoil thee as freely as I do.  'Tis the lot
of all men to die.  We have done our duty, and shall
do more yet before we go hence.  Let us charge the
enemy."

.. _`THE LAST CHARGE AT ST AUBIN`:

.. figure:: images/img-338.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: THE LAST CHARGE AT ST. AUBIN.

   THE LAST CHARGE AT ST. AUBIN.

"Ay, before our wounds grow stiff," muttered Tom
o' Kingston.  "But I would fain some one could tell
Polly Bremskete how I played the man."

But Ralph thought of nothing that was said.  He
only saw a grey mist--a crimson sunset glow--brown
purply foliage, and a lovely face with large blue eyes,
a crown of waving yellow hair, and two soft lips
saying, "Thou will watch over him, Ralph;" and he
kept saying to himself.  "I will do my duty."

And now the time had come.  The group of weary
horsemen rode down to meet their death.  Grimly
they settled themselves in their saddles, and sternly
they handled their weapons.  The setting sun glowed
on their battered armour, their fluttering tabards, and
on the blood-red cross on their breasts--

   |  "The deare remembrance of their dying Lorde."

All the gay splendour of pompous war was gone,
there only remained the iron will of stern and fixed
resolve animating those war-worn figures, awful in
their grim and reckless daring.  They rode to seek
their death.

The French men-at-arms, seeing them coming, were
struck with admiration at their gallant bearing; but
the orders of their captain were strict.  No one who
wore a red cross was to be spared.  They therefore
prepared to meet the little troop.  Their leader was
no less a person than Sir James Galliotti himself.
With generous chivalry, seeing the Lord Woodville
had no lance, he threw away his own, and drew his
sword.  The little squadrons met, and for a moment
it was difficult to tell how the shock had gone.  But
in a minute more it was seen that the Captain of the
Wight was still on horseback, and fighting against
fearful odds.  But the gallant Sir James Galliotti was
down, and so were Tom o' Kingston and Sir John
Trenchard.  The former had singled out a huge
Frenchman, and cleft his helm in twain, but had, at
the same time, been pierced through his visor into his
brain by another man-at-arms.  Sir John had also
killed his man, but had received a mortal wound in
doing so, and lay grimly still waiting for death to
relieve him.  "I would my good dame could have had
my body for burial, for she ever kept such fine linen
for my winding-sheet.  But it is as God wills, and it
will serve for her own cere-cloth.  'Tis hard for her I
die, seeing her own age.  I misdoubt me if she can
find another husband now.  But 'tis ever as God wills."

Ralph still struggled beside his lord.  He had set his
teeth, and his gauntlet seemed to have grown to his
mace.  In front of him was a well-armed cavalier, who
was aiming a deadly thrust at the Captain of the
Wight.  Ralph smote down the spear, and attacked
the foe with such strength as was left him.  He threw
himself upon the man-at-arms, and split his helmet
with his mace.  But his antagonist had also struck
him, and the fierce back-handed stroke shore off the
upper part of his casque, exposing Ralph's wavy fair
hair and weary eyes.

"What!  Is it thou, De Lisle?" cried the voice of
his foe.  "Then I am right joyous.  Never more shalt
thou leave this field.  I have sought for thee
everywhere to-day.  At last my hour hath come."

"Ay, and so it hath," said Maurice Woodville, who
with a last faint effort, thrust his dagger through the
visor of the man-at-arms, and both fell to the ground
together.

Ralph, still thinking only of his lord, and heeding
nothing that concerned himself, turned round to see
where he was.  In wild despair he leapt from his
horse.  The Captain of the Wight was down; but
over him stood a tall knight, who was defending him
against the thrusts and blows of the enemy.  Ralph
rushed forward, parrying a fierce cut at his exposed
head with his wounded left arm, and the Frenchman,
seeing no more glory was to be won, turned away to
look after their fallen leader.  Ralph stooped down
over his lord.  His head swam, he reeled and fell.
All sense left him, and he lay in a dead faint.  He
must have lain some time unconscious, for when he
was recalled to life by some cooling bandage to his
head, the sun had sunk, and the pale primrose of the
evening sky was fading into the ashy grey of night.
There were faint sounds near, voices, and dreary
moans, and above, the stars were shining down on that
grim scene of woe, as they had shone on thousands
before and would shine on thousands after.  He
listened to the faint voices near.  Was he in England?
Who were they?

"Then I have thy pardon, noble knight?  Would to
God I could have His too!  Ah, evil have been my days,
and fierce my life, but from henceforth I vow to humble
myself before Him, and lay aside the sword for ever."

Ralph listened.  Who could it be?

A faint voice answered with great difficulty and
many pauses.

"I thank God I have had this meeting before I
die--He hath ever been merciful to me, sinful man
that I am--but in no wise hath His mercy been more
marvellously proven than in saving me from the sin
thou wottest of.--Thou didst her and me cruel wrong.
I say no more of that--I thank God I die, and I thank
Him all the more in that thou knowest now how
guiltless she and I have been.  Not of mine own
strength did I resist temptation, but, as is written in
Holy Writ, 'Noe temptacion hath o'ertaken thee, but
what God will withe ye temptacion alsoe makke a
waie to escape.'  I am near my end now."  The voice
became weaker.  "I cannot forgather my thoughts.
Thou wilt see her.  Tell her--ah!--I shall see her
too, where there is neither marrying nor giving in
marriage, but where we 'are as the angels of God in
heaven.'"  And the voice, scarcely audible in the last
few gasps, ceased for ever.

The other voice broke out,--

"Ah, Sir Edward Woodville, noble Captain, gentle
knight, how thou wert head of all Christian knights,
and now thou liest dead!  Ever wast thou the pattern
of all true knights.  The courtliest wast thou, that ever
bare shield, the truest friend to thy lover that ever
bestrode horse.  Ever wast thou the goodliest person
that ever came among press of knights.  The meekest
and the gentlest that ever loved woman.  The sternest
to thy mortal foe that ever laid spear in rest.  And
now thou art dead!  And I live.  Ah, me.  What
dolour and grief is this; that I could not give my life
for thy life!  Ah, sinful man that I am.  How shall
I atone for my evil life?  How dolorous hath been
this day.  And the departing out of this world of all
this meynie of joyous and gentle men!"

Ralph listened, as in a dream.  The voices ceased,
and the whirr of a night-jar hummed above the low
wail of the deserted battle-field.  The faint sound of
inarticulate pain rose and sank on the gentle night
breeze.  The still air seemed to vibrate with pain.

Presently a soft hand touched his brow.  He looked
round.  A slight form was bending over him, and a
gentle voice murmured,--"'Tis a friend; but speak
no word, there is yet danger around."

Ralph lay still, his senses had not yet recovered
their usual vigour.  He liked lying still, as the balmy
night air of midsummer fanned his brow, watching
the solemn stars blinking down, and the flitting bats
as they flickered to and fro.  He felt desperately
thirsty, and turned his head to see if the mysterious
figure were near.

"Father!--father!--ah me, how dolorous is the
time!  Father, shall we not get hence?  Alack! he
heareth not!  Father! the night grows damp, thy
wounds will stiffen.  Alack! alack! he heedeth not!"

Again all was silent over that dismal scene.  The
heaps of dead men glinted in the starlight, and the
night wind stirred the torn and tattered tabards till
they rustled in the wind.

Ralph began to recover his senses as the chill air
of night fanned his forehead, but as he awoke to the
reality of life, a numbing sense of bitter pain passed
through his heart.  Where were all his friends?  Where
were those gallant four hundred who had gone in
all the pride of strength and joyous manhood to
win fame, and name, and fortune in the sunny land
of France?  Where was Dicky Cheke?  Alas,
poor Dicky!  Did he need no ransom now?  Had
his thoughts come true?  Was the only ransom he
would ever require the great ransom paid for all?
There they lay, with solemn upturned faces, whiter
than their white tabards, and signed with the ruddy
sign of their "deare Lord."  The solemn stars shone
for their funeral torches, and the rustling leaves of
the deep, still forest whispered a dirge for the
silent dead.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"OF THE CRAWLING TIDE"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "OF THE CRAWLING TIDE."

.. vspace:: 2

What happened during the days immediately
following the fatal battle of St Aubin du
Cormier, Ralph Lisle never clearly knew.  All he
could remember was an indistinct nightmare of
strange faces, rough and coarse, sometimes fierce and
cruel, but amid them all he always saw a pale oval
face, with large, wistful, brown eyes, and masses of
wavy, dark hair, and then he felt quiet.  He could
recollect nothing until one night he seemed suddenly
to awake, and found himself in a low, rough room,
with a strong smell of burnt peat, and a fresh breeze
blowing in through an opening in one side.  It was
nearly dark, save where the bright light of the moon
fell upon the rude clay floor, all littered with straw
and refuse.  Through the opening, which served for
window and door alike, he could see a broad gleam
of glancing light which he did not trouble himself
to think about.  He wondered where he could be.
There were no sounds in the room.  He raised his
head to look round.  He could not do it.  Was he
still in a dream? he wondered.  Why could he not
move himself easily?  He lay still again, and must
have dozed off, for when he again looked round there
were some figures in the room, and one--that of a
girl--was softly stealing away from him towards a tall
man, and he could hear her say in a low tone,--

"He is sleeping gently."

"That is well, my daughter, go thou to rest now.
Marie will see that he is cared for."

Ralph made a little movement; the girl stopped,
and looked round.  There was a small rushlight on
a table; its light fell on her face.  Where had he
seen that gentle, winsome head and eyes?  Ralph
said,--

"Where am I?  What has happened?  Why, what's
come to my voice?"

"Oh, father, I am so glad!" cried the girl, and
turned quickly back to the couch where Ralph lay.
The tall man stepped across the room, taking the
rushlight in his hand.

Ralph could not recall the face or figure; he felt
sure he had never seen either, and yet he had heard
the voice.

"Thou art on the road to health, my son," said the
man.  "Thou hast been like to die for a week past."

"Where am I?"

"Safe in the cottage of a hind.  But thou shalt
know all to-morrow an thou art in trim to hear news."

So saying, the tall figure removed the light, and in
a few minutes more all was quiet in the cottage.

The next morning found Ralph much better.  He
now learnt where he was, and who had saved him.

"But there is great risk still," said the girl, "and I
know not how we may fare.  Jean is very rough, and
I doubt he is not to be trusted far.  His wife Marie
is as true as steel, but alack! we English are not
overmuch liked, and I hear there are men-at-arms
beating the country side.  But now thou art better,
we can move," she added cheerily.

Ralph saw how nobly these strangers had acted by
him.  He could not understand why.  They had risked
their lives to save him, and this, too, when the chances
were very small that they could ever nurse him through
the fever, which resulted from the exhaustion, heat,
and wounds of that dreadful day of St Aubin.  He
did not yet know all.

"But who are you?" he asked languidly.

"Ah, now, who do you think?"

"You are not--no, you can't be.  Well, I don't
know who you are.  But I seem to have seen you
before."

"Where?  Can't you call it to mind?"

"Was it in the lists at Carisbrooke?"

"In sooth it was," said the girl, laughing; "and
somewhere else, too."

"Not at Appuldurcombe, was it?"

"Ay, marry was it, and elsewhere, too.  At it
again."  But then seeing the effort of memory was
too much for Ralph in his weak state, the girl
added,--"There, you can't think now.  Lie still, and I will
tell you.  Do you mind lending some poor vagrants
a pony at Thruxton?  Do you mind a certain night,
when you were nigh going over the edge of a cliff
near St Catherine's Down?  You never knew who it
was that spoke to you that night in the mist?  And
you never knew who sent you the glove?  Ah, well! 'twas
lucky for you you wore it, or father would have
knocked you off like all the others.  And why do
you think I did it?" she said, with an arch smile.

"I can't tell," said Ralph, dreamily.

"Well, but you might think."  Then seeing that
Ralph's thoughts were far away, she added, in a pitying
tone,--"Why, because thou wast so kind to father
and me that day at Thruxton.  You little knew who I was."

"And who are you?" said Ralph absently.

"Oh, that is a merry conceit.  Don't you know now?"

"No; tell me.  How can I tell?"

"Why, I'm Aunt Yolande's niece."

"Aunt Yolande's niece!" cried Ralph in amazement,
utterly astounded at the unexpected answer,
and not at all able to take in the truth of the remark.

"Yes I am, although you may find it hard to credit,
and my father is Sir George Lisle, and he fled for his
life from the field of Stoke, trusting to the generosity
of the Captain of the Wight, who, he thought, was
his greatest enemy, but whom he knew to be a very
noble knight."

"And he was not wrong," said Ralph, sadly but
proudly.

"Nay he was not wrong.  But he tried to give his
life for the Captain's, when he found out how great
an injury he had done him.  Do you remember Sister
Agnes that day I saw you at Appuldurcombe?  Do
you know who she is?"

"No.  Who is she?"

"She is my mother," said Magdalen, softly and
sadly.

"Your mother!" said Ralph in astonishment.  "But
she is a nun."

"Yes, she is now; but she was Lady Lisle.  I can't
call her much to mind at that time, for she left me
when I was only four years old."

"Why did she leave you?" said Ralph, becoming
more interested.

"'Tis a sad story, and I know not if I know all
myself.  But she was not happy, and could not bear
her life.  She took the veil in London, and became
a Sister of St Clare."

"And how did you find out she was your mother?"

"Do you mind that night in the snow when father
and the Captain fought?  You did not know it was
the Hermit of St Catherine's and I who came.  I
only found out too late; but I could not have done
anything to prevent their fighting had I known sooner.
After father was so sore wounded, the Hermit, who
has been a knight himself, and knew father as a boy,
took him to the good Sisters of Appuldurcombe to
be nursed, and for a long time father was between
life and death.  In his ravings, Sister Agnes--that's
my mother, you know--who took her turn to nurse
him with the others--but not at first, because she
had been very ill herself--heard him call her by her
real name, and she knew him, of course, directly she
saw him.  She then for the first time heard how
cruelly he had mistrusted her in her flight, and that
he--well, she made up her mind to tell him
everything if he should get well.  I don't know what
happened, but father became quite altered.  He was
a long time getting well; and then you all went on
that dolorous journey.  But you never saw me passing
you that evening near Wootton.  Father's life was
at stake if he should be discovered; and he heard
that there were spies of the King's looking out for
him; for a rumour had got abroad of an unknown
knight, wearing a Yorkist collar, having been at a
tourney at Carisbrooke--and it might have been the
missing Lord Lovell.  Well (but I shall never get
done), we managed to get on board a Norman ship
of St Vaast, come over with salt, which took us over
to Barfleur; and then we heard for the first time
that Eustace Bowerman had gotten over there, and
was being made much of because he said he could
tell the French governor of the province all about
what was going on here.  I also heard he had vowed
to kill some one against whom he had a deadly hate,
and I knew that must be you.  As Master Bowerman
was a likely-looking youth, and well spoken, and not
wanting in a ready address and lying tongue, he got
on marvellous well, and indeed he helped the French;
for they, who thought the Captain of the Wight was
a very powerful prince, seeing he was uncle to our
Queen, and who dreaded he would bring over a very
powerful meynie, were full glad to hear how small
a force he could muster, and that made them right
hardy and joyous; so that they fought on that bitter
day with greater heart than they are wont to do when
they meet with us.  For they knew right well that
those other seventeen hundred in red crosses were
but poor weak Bretons.  My father, who was a
well-known Yorkist, all of which faction were welcome in
France as being useful to keep our King in check,
was readily allowed his freedom, and he offered his
sword to the Seigneur de la Trimouille in the hope
he might save some of our poor men's lives, but
most of all he longed to save the Captain of the
Wight, and to tell him how sad he was at the wrong
he had done him.  He never knew how vilely those
caitiffs had set upon you until I told him, and he
always hated Bowerman ever after, and Bowerman
returned his hate."

This account had astonished Ralph.  It seemed so
surprising--so like a tale told by a jongleur.  That
he should have helped his relative, Yolande's brother,
and her own niece, in such an accidental way; that
this should have led to his triumph at the tourney,
and finally to the saving of his own life, seemed so
like a romance, that he could not think it was all true.

"And so that is your father, Sir George Lisle, and
you are my cousin after all," said the young man
dreamily.  "Well, I shall believe it all, I dare to
say, some day, but now I seem more in a dream
than ever."

"But here is father himself," said Magdalen, as the
tall figure of the knight entered the room.

Ralph would have risen and done reverence due
to the rank and kinship of this man who had so
mysteriously interfered in his life, since he left
Thruxton without his knowing it.

Sir George, however, forbade his moving, and greeted
his young kinsman as kindly as his somewhat austere
manner would let him.

"So thou knowest all now, my young cousin.  The
next matter is to get thee safe to St Malo or Dinan,
where I hear the Marechal de Rieux is holding out.
Ah, the bad captainship of that old soldier!  Had--but
there, 'tis no use--'tis no use," broke off Sir
George Lisle sadly, and almost fiercely.

Magdalen tried to turn the conversation to other
matters, but after several attempts she gave it up, and
they all became silent.

As Ralph grew stronger, his memory came back to
him, and he asked for details of the battle.  He knew
they were defeated, but he did not know the extent
of the catastrophe.  Gradually the fearful nature of
the defeat dawned upon him; but it was long before
he could realise it.  The noble Captain of the Wight,
Maurice Woodville, all these strong and lusty men,
Dicky Cheke, all gone!  It was too much.  Ralph
turned away, and sobbed.  The utter desolation of it
all, his own physical prostration, and the dreary
prospect before him, completely overwhelmed him,
although he did not think of himself.  He wished he
had died.  He did not care to live.  For some days
after he learnt the news, Ralph was listless and morose,
and the knight seemed nearly as miserable.  It was
with the utmost difficulty the girl was able to get
either to take any food, and she, poor child, at last
was beginning to lose all interest in anything.  Their
life was very uncomfortable.  There was nothing to
divert them from their own sad thoughts.  The Breton
peasants with whom they had taken refuge belonged
to one of the Breton nobles, who had fallen at St
Aubin, and had hitherto proved themselves faithful
enough.  But there was nothing beyond their natural
good nature to keep them so.  It was true the money
the fugitives had brought with them was ample
payment for the services performed, but when that was
gone there seemed little left to restrain the Bretons
betraying them.  In spite of the proud boast of the
Seigneur de Rohan--"Jamais Breton ne fit trahison"--there
was only too much likelihood that in a few
days the three fugitives would be delivered up to
their enemies.

One day as they were sitting listlessly outside the
cottage on a boulder of granite, gazing wistfully
at the sea sparkling among the innumerable rocks
which encumbered the large bay before them, the
peasant woman came out, and looking about her,
approached the girl.  After talking earnestly for some
time she went back to the house, and the girl turned
to her father with a face paler than usual.

"Father," she said, "we must get away at once.
Marie says she has heard men-at-arms are coming
this evening, and we have but little time to escape.
She has given us warning at the peril of her life, so
she says; and there is an Englishman, she tells me,
who has been asking about us all round the country.
He is a one-eyed young man, she says."

Ralph looked up.  He had now heard of the
treachery of Bowerman.  He now knew that the
knight who had saved him was no other but Sir
George Lisle, and that the girl whose glove he had
worn in the tournament was Magdalen Lisle, niece of
Yolande, and heiress to all the Lisle estates, if only
her father were restored to his proper position.

Magdalen had taken no pains to conceal her dislike
of Bowerman, and her pleasure on finding that her
father no longer trusted him, and that he equally
shared her dislike, was very great.  In the necessity
of their prompt escape from the battlefield, all
examination of the dead was precluded, and neither Sir
George Lisle nor his daughter knew whether Bowerman
had survived.  But now Marie told them of this
Englishman, the girl's fears were aroused.  Bowerman
had urged his suit with her father during
their intercourse in France, and Sir George Lisle had
received his advances very coldly, and Magdalen
dreaded his finding them, especially as her father's
conduct in defending the wounded Captain of the
Wight must have been observed.

The danger was imminent.  The little hut where
they had taken refuge was on the edge of a rocky
bay not far from St Malo, but the intervening country
was scoured by the French troops, and escape by land
was next to impossible.

"We must go by sea," said Sir George.  "There is
Jean's old boat."

"But the tide is out, father! look where it is!"
said Magdalen, pointing in dismay to the long stretch
of sand, strewn with boulders and piles of sharp rocks
protruding in all directions, while away on the edge
of this waste the sea was breaking on a reef of ugly
points of granite, black with the weather and time,
and grinning like the teeth of some wild animal, amid
the foam and froth of the sea.  It was too true; the
tide would not come in enough to float the clumsy
boat before it would be dark, and from what Marie
said, the men-at-arms would be there before dusk.

"We must try and push the boat down," said Sir George.

They went back to the hut, and searching in the
shed where the few tools belonging to the labourer
were kept, Ralph found some spars that would serve
for rollers.

Sir George had taken the precaution, when they
escaped under cover of the darkness from the field of
St Aubin, to bring his own armour and that of Ralph
Lisle with him.  He had dismissed his servants,
bidding them shift for themselves, and the horses
had been sold by Jean to provide money for their
expenses, and also to prevent suspicion arising, if
such animals were seen in the neighbourhood of
his cottage.

Carrying to the boat the few effects they intended
taking with them, and hastily collecting such food
as Marie could provide them with, the fugitives went
down the beach to where the boat lay.  They
anxiously looked at her.  It seemed utterly
impossible they could move her.  Ralph was still very
weak, and they soon found their fears were too true.
They could not possibly move it.

"'Twill be three hours yet before she floats," said
Sir George.

"Any way, we can carry out the anchor as far as
this warp will let us," said Ralph, "'twill give us
greater help to pull her out, and here's an old sail we
can set all ready for the first lift of the tide.  The
wind is right off the land."

Anything being better than standing still doing
nothing, they set up the mast, and got the old brown
sail ready for hoisting.  Everything was now in, when
Magdalen suddenly exclaimed,--

"Why, see how fast the tide is rising!  It is already
past that reef of rocks there!  It won't be nearly as
long before she floats as we thought."

The tide was indeed rising fast, and the distant reef
of rocks had disappeared entirely.  A few jagged
peaks were sticking up here and there on some of the
higher patches of rock, soon to be hidden by the inrushing
tide, leaving their sharp points a few feet below
the surface, with nothing to show their dangerous
position.

The sun was setting over the low, sandy shore on
the western side of the bay.  The long shadows of
some of the strangely-shaped rocks stretched far
across the yellow sand, and the shrill cry of the
sea-mew called to its mate.  In a few minutes more the
sun would set, and the grey mist of the sea would
come creeping over the hot land from the cool ocean.
The tide had now reached the boat; the anchor was
already covered.

"Get in Magdalen," said her father; "we will stay
to push her off, if may be."

Sir George and Ralph had both taken off their
shoes, and, bare-legged, were standing in the fast
rising tide.

Suddenly Magdalen saw a shadow moving over the
sand--she looked round.

"Oh father, there they are," she cried in horror.





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.. _`HOW THE MIST ROSE IN TERQUETÉ BAY`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THE SEA MIST ROSE IN TERQUETE BAY.

.. vspace:: 2

The startled cry of Magdalen called the attention
of the others to the shadows flitting over the sand.

There, against the red glory of the departed sun,
were figures of horsemen looming up on the dark line
of jagged rocks which edged the western sky.

"There are three, four, five--ay, a dozen or more,
and they are coming apace.  Up with the sail, Ralph,"
cried Sir George Lisle, jumping into the boat.

There was already a foot or more of water all round
her, and the sea spreading out over the flat sand made
the boat look as if she were far out in deep water.

The sail was run up the mast, and Ralph, still in
the water, pushed with all his might, while Sir George
Lisle hauled hard at the warp.

"She's moving, she's moving," cried Magdalen, in
an ecstasy of excitement, jumping about, and trying
to help with an oar.  At the same time, a fierce cry
came over the water, and the distant sparkles on the
edge of the ripples told of a horseman having plunged
into the sea.

"Push, push," cried Magdalen, "or they will be here
after all."

They strained and tugged, but the boat would not
move.  The splashes sounded nearer, the fierce cries
became louder.

"Oh! oh! if only there were quicksands," cried
Magdalen.

"There are," said her father.  "The bay is full of
them as the tide rises."

"Sir George Lisle!  Sir George Lisle!" called out a
well-known voice.  "Your life is safe, and that of
Mistress Lisle, if you attempt no escape--and no
escape is possible; but I cannot vouch for your safety
if you persist in trying to get away."

But the fugitives gave no answer.

"There she goes," gasped Ralph, as he strained
more than ever with his shoulder against the square
stern of the ill-shaped boat.

"Oh, Ralph, you will do yourself a mischief," said
Magdalen, "and you hardly well yet from your illness."

The boat was moving, however.  Sir George Lisle
kept pulling in the warp, and the sand was stirred up
all round.

"Ah, what's that?" said Sir George, as something
whizzed past him and stuck in the sail.  "Lie down,
child, they are shooting from their crossbows."

The splashes of the approaching horsemen seemed
very close; one especially was urging his horse to its
utmost speed.

"'Tis Bowerman," said Magdalen despairingly.

But their boat was really moving now.  Hand-over-hand
the warp kept coming in.  The breeze off the
shore came fresh and strong.

"Jump in, Ralph," cried Sir George.

With a last push and a violent leap, Ralph clambered
over the stern, and fell in a heap into the bottom
of the boat.

"Thank the saints we are off," said the knight, as
he pulled in the rude anchor over the bows of the old
boat, which was now rippling through the water.

Ralph had picked himself up, and was looking
astern at the splashing figures of two or three
men-at-arms who were still pressing on through the shallow
water.

"Aha, my friends, you'll have work enough to scour
your harness after this, but you won't--Marry,
what's the matter!" he broke off in alarm, as the sail
came tumbling down on their heads.

"'Tis a quarrel hath cut the halyards," said Sir
George in a smothered voice, as he tried to disengage
himself from the thick sail.

A loud shout of triumph from their pursuers told
how near the enemy were, and of their certainty of
success.

"Not yet, my fine custrils," shouted Ralph, as he
quickly climbed the mast to reeve the broken end of
the rope through the sheaf again.  A dangerous work,
considering the excellence of the crossbow practice;
and so it proved, for had not Ralph put on his back
and breast-pieces before leaving the hut, he would
have been mortally wounded, for one of the bolts
rattled against the cuirass like a hammer riveting iron.

"'Tis done, Messieurs, thank you," said Ralph,
sliding down, and quickly bending the rope on to
the yard, the old sail was run up the mast again
amid a defiant cheer from Ralph and Magdalen.

"Look at them," said Ralph, "you can see them
safely through that hole in the gunwale.  They are
floundering along finely.  Nay, my fine sir, 'tis not to
your mind, I can see.  Aha! 'tis best to go back.
There they go; they have given it up," and Ralph
bust into a roar of derisive laughter, in which
Magdalene joined with her merry rippling voice.

One cavalier alone seemed loth to give up the chase.

The water had already risen up to the girths of
his horse, but he kept spurring the reluctant animal
all the time.

"I will have thee yet," shouted the man-at-arms,
through his visor, as he shook his gauntleted hand
at the boat.  "Ralph Lisle, thou shall not escape me
this time.

"What! is it thou, Bowerman?" called back Sir
George Lisle.  "Nay, man, get thee back before the
sea swallow thee, and repent thee of thine evil deeds
and treachery ere it be too late.  There are quicksands,
man, and the tide is rising apace.  Thou gettest
us not this time."

The grey mist of evening was rising all around.
Out to sea a livid wall of impalpable vapour was
veiling the breaking crests of the waves as they surged
among the countless points of rock, whose sharp
peaks projected in bewildering danger on all sides.
The breeze had died down, and the brown sail flapped
idly against the mast.  The tide was still only at half
flood, and was sweeping into the bay.

"We must row," said Sir George.  "Magdalen, do
thou take the helm.  Steer between yonder black
rocks."

.. _`"WE MUST ROW," SAID SIR GEORGE`:

.. figure:: images/img-360.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
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   :alt: "WE MUST ROW," SAID SIR GEORGE.

   "WE MUST ROW," SAID SIR GEORGE.

The two men took the clumsy oars, and soon the
swish and gurgle under the bows told of the progress
they were making.  They had escaped.  Their pursuers
could go no further.  After rowing silently for
about ten minutes, Magdalen suddenly called out in
perplexity,--

"Where are the rocks?  I don't see them."

Sir George looked round.  There was nothing to
be seen but the bows of the boat as she lifted over a
longer swell than usual, or surged down into the
long trough of the heaving water.  All else was grey,
indistinguishable gloom.

"'Tis the sea mist.  We must have a-care, or we
shall be on some of these rocks," said Sir George.

They rested on their oars.  Astern they could still
see the dim figure of the horseman, who was now
urging his horse as hastily to land as he had spurred
it towards the boat.  But the creeping mist was fast
pursuing him.  Even now the yellow streak behind
the purple shore was becoming bleared and blotted,
and the harsh voices of the troopers, as they called to
each other, or laughed at the struggles of their more
hardy comrades, came deadened by the thickening
air across the shallow water of the rock-strewn bay.

"I doubt if ever Bowerman will reach the land,"
said Sir George, after looking at the dim speck which
was now all but invisible in the gloom.

But their own situation called for all their wits.
It was most important that they should reach the
head of the western point before the horsemen, who
would be sure to ride there, and perhaps get a boat
from the fishermen who lived in the bay round the
promontory.  The great danger now lay in the
innumerable rocks which lay all round.  After pulling
for a few minutes, Magdalen called to them to stop.
She was sure there was a rock near.  She had heard
a sharp sound.

They all listened attentively.  The surging of the
sea under the bows was all that they could hear.

"There! don't you hear it?" said Magdalen?  as a
sawing sound, sharp and swishing, rose over the silence
of the waves.

"'Tis the sea grinding against a sharp rock," said
Sir George, "and 'tis not far off.  Can'st tell where it
is, Ralph, thine ears are keener than mine?"

Again they all listened.  The boat had lost all
way, and was lying still in the glassy sea.  All round
was impenetrable gloom.  It was not absolutely dark.
They could distinguish each other in the boat, but
they could see nothing, even an oar's-length away.
All was grey, impalpable, vague opacity.

The sound of the sea among the points of the rocks
grew fainter.

"The tide is setting us in shore," said Sir George;
"we must row again."

Just as they were about to take to their oars a
shout came over the water.  It was a shout of terror,
a blood-curdling shriek of agony.

Magdalen shivered.

"'Tis some of those men-at-arms; they have lost
their way in the mist, and the rising tide has
overtaken them," said Ralph, and he began to row, in
order to deaden the noise, and distract the girl's
attention.

But the cries became more piercing, they seemed to
be nearer.

"We can't have turned round?" said Sir George.
"Are we rowing ashore?"

They again paused.  All was silent as the grave.
The breeze seemed to have got up a little.  Their
sail began to fill, and the water rippled under the
stern.

"This is getting parlous hazardous.  I would we
knew which way we are going.  Put thine oar over
the side and see if thou cans't feel the bottom," said
Sir George Lisle.

But before Ralph could do what he was told, and
while he was standing up to fathom with the oar,
there was a crash--a grinding, splintering sound, and
Ralph was thrown over the after-thwart into Magdalen's
lap, who gave a little scream and then sat still.

They well knew what had happened.  It did not
need the water, which was fast rising in the boat, to
tell them they had struck upon a rock, and were
rapidly filling with water.

All three were used to danger, and they did not
lose their presence of mind.  Ralph, as soon as he
had picked himself up, went forward and looked over
the side.  He could just see a brown patch through
the clear water.  He sounded with his oar.  It was
not more than six inches below the surface.  He
called to Sir George Lisle to sound over the stern
and to their dismay they found that the oar could
only just touch the bottom when held at arm's length
under the sea.  The boat was fast filling, and would
soon slip off and sink in deep water.  Without a
moment's hesitation Ralph jumped over on to the
rock.  He took out the anchor, and wading as far as
he could, he threw it out on the other side of the
rock, and was glad to see it sank some depth.  Then
going back, he pulled as hard as he could on the
warp, and thus prevented the chances of the boat
slipping off.

"If the tide doesn't rise any more, we are safe from
drowning, anyway," said Ralph.

In order to prevent the stern settling down any
more, they placed the two oars upright on the rocks,
as far out as they conveniently could, and then lashed
them to the gunwale.

"There! we have done all we can now," said Sir George.

And they sat silent and anxious, watching if the
tide were rising any more.  They had been so busy
with their work, that they had not noticed the cries
of distress that had been growing more and more
desperate.  Suddenly they were startled by a gurgling
sound quite close to them, a few gasps, splashings,
and a voice in agony calling for help.

The sudden sound, the words shrieked in English,
the blood-curdling struggles, quite upset Magdalen.
She screamed and clung to her father.

They peered into the gloom and could see nothing.
The sounds had ceased; a gurgling sound only could
be heard, and then all was quite still.

Ralph would have swum off in the direction of the
sounds, but the knight restrained him.

"You can do no good, and would never find him.
He has sunk by this time."

The silence of the night seemed doubly oppressive.
The swell of the sea rose over the sunken rock
without breaking, and the old boat rose with the heave,
grinding on the sharp point which had pierced her
planks, and then settled down.  They could not see
that the tide was rising any more, and Ralph made
a couch for Magdalen with the old sail, and wrapped
her up under the lee of the bows, where she was well
out of the night air, and away from the water.

"It must be past high-water by now," said Sir
George.  "'Tis a mercy the night is quiet.  I marvel
where we can be?"

It was not long before Ralph, looking over the
gunwale, said,--

"The tide has fallen a good bit.  The rock is quite
dry under her bows."

With the rapidity with which the sea had come in
it now rushed out again, swirling round the rock and
bubbling under the stern.  In a very short time the
boat was left high and dry, and Ralph got out to
climb down the rocks.  The mist had by this time
lifted, and he was astonished to see how close they
were to the shore.  He could not yet make out where
they were, but he thought he saw a light.

Reaching the firm sand, he walked towards the
light, and on his way stumbled over what he took
to be a rock.  Looking down, however, he found it
was a helmet, and a little further on was a breastplate.
It was clear it was the armour of the men who were
caught by the tide, and who had taken it off to enable
them to escape by swimming.

On reaching the beach he lost sight of the light,
and began to think he must have been deceived, when
a gruff voice called out,--"Qui va la?"

Ralph, utterly taken aback, did not know for the
moment what to do.  He stood quite still looking
about him.  The Frenchman repeated his demand,
and by the sleepy accents of other voices, combined
with the clank of metal, the esquire knew there were
several men encamped there, and that it was the
sentry who had challenged him.

He did not dare to retrace his steps, lest he should
draw the pursuit to the boat.  He longed for the mist
to grow thick again, and stooping down as low as he
could, he set off running towards a dark mass of rocks
on his right.

The twang of a bowstring, and the whizz of a bolt
past his left ear, told him what to expect.  He ran
at full speed along the shore, and reached the rocks
in safety.  He paused to take breath, and looked
round to see how he could best get back to the
others without being seen.

The moon had now come out, and, to his chagrin
Ralph could easily distinguish the mast and black
hull of the boat perched on the rocks not far away.

A shout from the men, who were all aroused now,
told him that they also had seen the boat, and that
all hope of escape was at an end.

In a few minutes more he saw a party of men-at-arms,
their weapons gleaming in the moonlight, ride
across the sand in the direction of the boat.  They
halted when they came to the armour lying in the
sand, and Ralph could hear one say,--

"Tiens! c'est le harnois de l'Anglais!"

They then rode on to the rock, and three or four
dismounting, climbed over the slippery stone.  In
another minute Ralph saw Sir George Lisle and
Magdalen climbing down the rocks amid their captors.

"It is all over," sighed the young esquire.  "I may
as well give myself up too."

However, he stood still a little longer, and watched
the party returning over the sand.  He saw the slight
form of Magdalen held in front of a man-at-arms, who
was joking loudly to another trooper beside him.

Sir George Lisle was disarmed, and walked between
two other steel-clad figures.  The whole cavalcade
was chatting loudly and laughing merrily.  It appeared
that all had escaped from the rising tide, excepting
one man-at-arms, and that one was the Englishman.
No one seemed to pity him, and Ralph felt the justice
of the retribution which had so swiftly cut off
Bowerman in the midst of his traitorous attempt to capture
his own Countrymen--a victim to his own malignant
hate.  Ralph was as yet undecided whether to give
himself up, or keep free as long as he could, in order
to avail himself of any chance of helping the others.

He decided he would wait a little longer.  He
watched the Frenchmen, with their prisoners, join the
main body, and then placing another sentry over their
captives, they lay down to sleep out the rest of the
night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW THERE'S NO CLOUD WITHOUT ITS SILVER LINING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW THERE'S NO CLOUD WITHOUT ITS SILVER LINING.

.. vspace:: 2

As soon as Ralph saw all was quiet, he made up
his mind he would return to the boat to put
on the rest of his armour and get some food.

The moon was shining brightly, and away in the
north-east the faint pale light above the horizon told
of the coming dawn.  It was an exquisite summer
night.  The sea mist had gone inland to refresh the
orchards and meadows of the rich valleys and uplands
of fair Normandy and rocky Brittany.  The long,
quaint shadows of the grim boulders, and weird piles
of granite, stretched across the white sand of the vast
bay.  Their rugged clefts and fantastic fissures, in
black distinctness against the gleaming light which
bathed their southern slope, lifting their hoary,
weather-worn summits to the full brilliancy of the moon, and
in turn throwing their twice borrowed light across the
beach and prostrate forms of the sleeping men-at-arms.
Away on the far edge of the bay the leaping
flash of tumbling water told of the sea, whose tranquil
depths seemed as far removed from that sleeping
shore, and those towering piles of crumbling rock, as
the fullness of summer from the barrenness of winter.

The only living thing seemed to be the solitary
man-at-arms as he rested on his long spear, his shadow
stretching behind him in grotesque distortion--the
man a pair of compasses, the lance a scaffolding
pole.

The distant crow of a cock, and the faint moan of
the ceaseless sea grinding on the rocks far out in the
bay were the only sounds that broke on the perfect
stillness of that exquisite harmony in silver and grey.

But Ralph gave scarce a thought to the poetry of
the scene, he quietly clambered down on the shady
side of the rocks, and stealthily creeping over the sand
under shelter of the long shadows of the pile he had
left, he was able to reach the farther side of the
mass of rocks which had proved fatal to their escape,
without the sentry seeing him.

Pausing a moment to look round before he climbed
up the steep and slippery boulders, on the apex of
which the old boat was perched, some thirty feet or
more above his head like a miniature Noah's ark on
the sunken top of another Ararat.  Ralph's attention
was attracted by a white patch some ten or twelve
yards away to his right.  He looked at it attentively,
and with a growing sense of dread.  Drawn irresistibly
towards it by a horrible fascination, Ralph found it
was the face of Bowerman, ghastly and contorted, his
body being wedged in between two huge rocks, where
the sweep of the tide had washed it.  Hastily leaving
the place, the boy climbed up to the boat, and
managed to get out the things he wanted without being
observed.  Armed with his sword and dagger, and
protected by his helmet and body armour, he descended
the rocks, edging carefully away from the livid face,
which gazed out from the dark mass, and reached his
former post of observation without incident.

The day had now begun to break, and objects were
becoming visible.  There was no stir as yet among
the detachment on the beach, who were still sound
asleep, their horses tethered and browsing on the
scanty growth of herbage which cropped up here and
there amid the sand and dry seaweed.

The pile of rocks where Ralph was ensconced was
higher than any others near, and from its summit the
boy obtained a fine view over the country round.

The sun had not yet risen, and a mist still hung
over the land.

Not far off, however, Ralph saw a horse feeding,
fully equipped, but without a rider.  "It must be one
broken away from the rest," he thought, and the idea
came into his head that he would catch the animal
and make use of him.

He was just going to climb down to carry out his
plan when his attention was arrested by some moving
object away to his right.  He had now turned round,
and was looking in the direction of St Malo.  He could
not mistake the objects.  They were spear points, and
the little pennants were fluttering in the light morning
air.

"'Tis lucky I saw them before I moved.  They must
be the lances of another body of French men-at-arms."

So thinking, Ralph lay still, not overmuch liking his
position, for he was now almost certain to be descried
as this new troop came near.

The sun was just rising, and its first rays were
glinting on each rock and tree and distant church spire,
which stood out above the mist.  Ralph watched the
approaching spear points.  He could not yet see the
riders.

He turned round to look at the little encampment
There was already a stir.  Men were up and grooming
their horses; others were stretching themselves; all
was noise and life.  Ralph could see Magdalen sitting
disconsolately by her father, and glancing round from
time to time to examine their captors.

The breeze blew straight from the camp to the
advancing body of men, and the bustle and stir was
carried down the wind.

"They have halted," thought Ralph, seeing the
spears did not advance any nearer.  "But here comes
some one.  How warily he comes.  Why!  No!  Yes!
Can it be?  They must have put on the surcoats of
some of our poor fellows.  They've got red crosses!"

And Ralph, with renewed interest, watched the
movements of the man-at-arms or mounted archer,
who was riding out of the mist with great caution,
putting every bush and rock between himself and the
place whence the sounds came.

"Why, there's another away to the left, and here's
another.  They are masters in their work, anyway,"
muttered Ralph, as he watched the picturesque figures,
fully accoutred, and well mounted, pushing their small
horses over the coarse grass.  The boy was so intent
on the motions of these men that he did not give
sufficient care to cover himself, and he was suddenly
startled by the nearest horseman reining in his horse
and dropping the reins, while he took deliberate aim
at him with the crossbow he held ready at his hip,
calling at the same time,--

"Come down, thou French jackanapes thou, or I'll--"

Ralph needed no second bidding.

"They are English; they are English," he almost
screamed with delight, as he scrambled over the boulders,
and at length stood by the side of the archer.

It took but few words to tell the scout who he was,
and what was going on, and in another minute Ralph
found himself amid a group of splendid knights and
men-at-arms, with a strong force of archers on foot
and horseback behind them.

"What!" said a cheery voice.  "Whom have we
here?  As I live, 'tis my young hero of the lists at
Carisbrooke.  Marry, and I am right glad."

Ralph had turned to the speaker, and was rejoiced
to find it was no other than Sir Richard Cornwall.
After the greetings were over, he explained briefly
how urgent the need was for pressing on at once, and
cutting off the retreat of the Frenchmen with their
prisoners, and in a few minutes more the young esquire
had the delight of being mounted on a stout horse,
armed with a lance, and riding in the front rank of the
men-at-arms between Sir Richard Cornwall and Lord
Broke, who were listening to his account of the battle
of St Aubin du Cormier, and all that had happened
since, and learnt in his turn of how it came about that
the English troops were there.

It seemed that the news of the disaster which had
occurred in Brittany was at first disbelieved in the
Isle of Wight.  The catastrophe was too awful for any
one to believe.  At last, as more certain news arrived,
and there was no longer any room to doubt, the
distress was terrible.  Depopulated as the island had
been previously, and just as it was now recovering its
prosperity under the able rule of Sir Edward Woodville,
assisted by the favourable treaties of peace with
France and the Low Countries, this sudden calamity
plunged the whole island into despair.  There was
scarcely a family, rich or poor, who had not lost some
relative; and the total absence of any particulars made
it all the more distressing.  No one knew whether
their relations were dead or not.  At first it was
reported that every man was killed, but a later account
said that it was believed some few were alive,
desperately wounded, and like to die, but as no names
were mentioned, the anxiety and doubt were only
rendered all the more acute.

As soon as Henry VII. heard of the disaster, he
despatched at once Robert Lord Broke, Sir John
Cheney, Sir Richard Cornwall, and many more "lusty
and courageous captaynes," with eight thousand
men-at-arms.  But, like many other recent English
expeditions, the force arrived too late, and although the
troops were of the best quality, there was not enough
of them.

It was a detachment of these troops that Ralph fell
in with.  Lord Broke having only arrived two days
before at St Malo, and having taken the earliest
opportunity of making a reconnaissance in force.

The knowledge of the arrival of these reinforcements
had spurred Bowerman on to greater activity, for he
knew if he did not discover the whereabouts of the
fugitives before the English arrived, he would not be
able to do so afterwards.

Acting on the knowledge of the country, and position
of the French troops, which Ralph possessed from
his survey that morning, Lord Broke kept his men out
of sight of the French, and sent a detachment round
in order to cut off all retreat.

Ralph having dismounted, had approached cautiously,
and looking round a rock, saw the enemy
happily engaged in preparing their breakfast.  So
utterly unconscious were they of any foe near, that
many of them had not put on their heavier armour.

"Marry, they are not worth lance thrust," said Sir
Richard Cornwall in contempt.  "'Twill be but an idle
slaughter.  'Tis a pity we cannot give them warning."

The knight and the esquire having made their
report, Lord Broke gave orders to advance upon the
enemy.  The movement was executed with such precision
and rapidity, that no resistance was offered by
the astonished French men-at-arms.  Ralph had
galloped straight for Sir George Lisle and Magdalen, and
stood by them until all chance of harm was over, and
as soon as the prisoners were disarmed, and the column
reformed, he led them to Lord Broke.

This nobleman had known Sir George Lisle in
former days, and was well acquainted with his
history.  He would much rather not have fallen in with
him, for his safety was probably greater in the French
army than as a Yorkist prisoner in the hands of one
of Henry the Seventh's captains.  But having heard
from Ralph how he had tried to save the life of the
Captain of the Wight at the imminent risk of his own,
Lord Broke hoped he might be able to plead this
service with Henry.

He received Sir George Lisle therefore very courteously,
but intimated that he must still consider
himself a prisoner.

Mistress Lisle was treated with every courtesy, and
the rescued English were sent under a guard to St Malo.

As Ralph Lisle was, so far as was known, the only
survivor of the luckless expedition under Sir Edward
Woodville, he was ordered by Lord Broke to return
at once to England; and Sir George Lisle and his
daughter were also sent back in the same ship.

Lord Broke forwarded very favourable reports of
the young esquire, and also strong recommendations
to mercy on behalf of Sir George Lisle, who, seeing
how hopeless were the aims of the Yorkist party, and
conscious of the treachery that was going on within
their ranks,--weary of the world, and sick at heart of
his conduct towards his wife, as well as of his unjust
suspicions of the Captain of the Wight, determined,
if his life were spared, to become a monk, like an
ancestor of his who had founded, and himself became
the first arch-priest of, the little Oratory of Barton.
Lord Broke, knowing this resolve, mentioned it as a
further inducement to obtaining the royal pardon.
However, on the arrival of the ship at Southampton,
Sir George Lisle was taken at once to Winchester
Castle, and kept there a close prisoner of state until
the royal pleasure was known.

Magdalen Lisle was not allowed to be with her
father.  Ralph promised he would take her to her
grandfather at Briddlesford; and the same day that
Sir George Lisle was carried off under a strong guard
to Winchester, he and his cousin sailed for Wootton
Creek.

The news of the arrival of the only survivors of the
expedition caused much stir, and Ralph found himself
a greater hero than he had any wish to be.

Fortunately for him it was expected he would come
to Newport, and so he was enabled to reach Briddlesford
unmolested.

He dreaded the meeting with his relatives, as indeed
he would have avoided, had it been possible, coming
to the island at all.  So many painful memories would
be stirred by the sight of the sorrow-stricken people;
but he had his duty to perform, and must go through
with it.

His meeting with old Sir William was easily got
over.  The old knight welcomed him heartily, and
was evidently prepared to take to his grandchild
Magdalen.  Ralph was rejoiced to see this, for he
had rather feared a stern reception for the poor
desolate child, who had seen so much hardship in
her young life, and had had so little of the pleasures
of youth.  However, events had occurred of which
Ralph knew nothing.  After the greetings were over,
and Magdalen felt a little less strange, the old man
said,--

"Now, my son, thou must see Yolande; she is
awaiting thee in the parlour yonder."

Ralph passed across the hall, and paused at the
door of the little room.  He tapped timidly.  A low
voice answered "Come in," and Ralph entered.

He found his cousin sitting in a deep window-seat,
the last glow of the setting sun streaming in through
the narrow quarries of ill-made glass.  The autumn
tints were already blending with the still deep green
of the thick oak woods.  Along the valley the evening
mist was rising, and the knell of the Abbey bell came
deep sounding over the hills and water between.

"Ralph, my brave cousin, welcome back home,"
said the low sweet voice of Yolande.

Ralph could not speak for a moment or two.  He
crossed the room, and taking the hand of his cousin,
which she held out to him, he bent down and pressed
it to his lips.  The action recalled that happiest
moment of his life, when in the hall of Carisbrooke he
had received the prize of the tourney amid the
congratulations of that gay assembly, of which scarce a
man was left alive.

The recollection was too much.

They neither of them spoke for some minutes.

When Ralph had mastered his emotion, he began
to talk to his cousin, he hardly knew what; but he
felt confused, excited.  Her very appearance shocked
him.  So much had Yolande altered since last she bid
good-bye to that gallant band who had so joyously
gone forth to seek name and fame and fortune in the
sunny land of France.

Her lovely complexion was still there.  Her eyes
were larger and more meltingly blue, but her cheeks
were thinner, and her youthful bloom and freshness
were gone.  Her lips had lost their fullness, and her
figure its bewitching softness.  Suffering and grief
were in her face and in her deep black dress.

As the young moon rose over the russet oaks, and
the still landscape made its subtle beauty felt, Yolande,
who had hitherto said nothing, but let Ralph babble
on, whispered quietly, "Tell me."

Ralph knew well what she meant.  He told her all,
even the words he heard the Captain of the Wight
say as he lay dying on the battlefield.

Yolande listened.  She made no sound.  When he
had finished, she simply said, "Where there is neither
marrying nor giving in marriage, but we are as the
angels of God in heaven.  Yea, I knew it could never
be.  How nobly he died--" and then she remained
silent for a while.

Ralph said nothing.  Presently he said in a low,
half-timid tone,--

"Yolande, thou art not vexed with me?  I tried to
do my duty.  I would willingly have died so he could
have lived."

"My noble boy, I know it.  Art not thou the hero,
the knight?  I know thou foughtest as none could
fight better.  'Twas God's doing.  But he hath been
faithful unto death--" and then she mused again.

After a long pause, Ralph said,--

"Cousin Yolande," but no answer came.  Ralph
looked round.  His cousin was kneeling in the
darkling room.  The pale light of the young moon fell
upon her crown of golden hair, which curled and waved
about her face and over her shoulders.  Her hands
were clasped, and her eyes were shut, and behind was
the dark room, and above the pale calm moon.

Ralph spoke no more.  He gazed upon her in wondering
admiration.  How very beautiful she was.  How
very unearthly she looked.  He knew his boyish
dream was over.  He knew her heart was buried in
the little churchyard of St Aubin beside the unknown
grave of the good knight, Sir Edward Woodville,
sometime Lord and Captain of the Isle of Wight.

As the moon rose higher, its light fell on a polished
shield behind Yolande's face, and the startling
brilliancy of her ethereal head against the shining metal,
while all the rest of her figure was in darkness, made
her look like some saint with a glowing halo round her.

Presently she rose from her knees, kissed Ralph
with a sisterly kiss, and said in a calm, soft voice,--

"Cousin mine, I have vowed myself to God.
Henceforth I belong not to this world."

Ralph bowed his head over her long thin hand, and
pressed it to his lips.  He could say nothing.

In another few minutes a step was heard outside,
and old Sir William Lisle entered the room, attended
by Magdalen carrying a lighted sconce.  Yolande at
once resumed her tranquil every-day manner, and
placed her father's chair beside Ralph.  The old man
sat down heavily, with a little sigh.

"So, Ralph, thou art getting on right well, I hear.
That's well.  But thou must not think of parting yet.
The good folks up to Thruxton can spare thee a while
longer.  There's Magdalen here will want thee to ride
over the country side, and 'tis thou must see to her, since
she's seen so well to thee.  Turn and turn about, say I."

And so they talked of other things, but Ralph could
only think of his cousin, and wished he was lying in
far St Aubin churchyard.

But what Sir William Lisle had said was very true.
Magdalen Lisle had seen very well to Ralph, and it
was to her sharp wits and ready hands he owed his life.

Hitherto they had been like brother and sister; but
as Ralph grew stronger, Magdalen's manner slightly
changed.  She became shyer, more reserved.

Yolande had taken at once to the child, and they
spent much of their time at the little nunnery of
Appuldurcombe, where sister Agnes was allowed to
see her daughter.

Ralph had been to Newport, and after seeing the
relatives of nearly all who had fallen, and gone over
the events of the battle until he was utterly wearied,
he thought he would set off for Thruxton.  While he
was thinking of this, sitting listlessly at the hall door,
and idling with a pretty goshawk, a figure rode up the
rough road across the meadow in front of the manor.
Ralph looked up.  Not many strangers passed this
way.  The figure came nearer.  Who could it be?
It looked like a well-known face--and could it be?
Surely that was the voice of one he ought to know?

"Well, Ralph, I'm parlous sorry to claim my bird,
but I didn't think I should want it again, and it was
only given with an 'if,' you know."

Ralph sprang to his feet.

"What!  Dicky!" he cried in amaze.

"Marry, yes, that's my name, if you are very
familiar, otherwise I am called Richard Cheke,
Esquire, or Master Richard Cheke; but don't let us
be too formal."

"Why, Dicky, however did you come to life again?"
cried Ralph, utterly astounded.  "You're not a ghost,
are you?"--for Dicky did look very ill and thin.

"Don't call a fellow names, Ralph Lisle; you did
not use to do so.  I fear you have learnt bad manners
since I have been away.  It's well for you I've come
back.  But there's no time to be lost.  Let me have
something to eat, for I am parlous hungry."

And so Dicky Cheke really had returned.  He gave
an amusing account of his escape.  It appeared that
during the night some of the ghouls, who live by
stripping the dead, took off his armour.  The next
morning he recovered consciousness, and when they were
searching the field to bury the chief knights and lords,
Dicky, thanks to his bad French, pretended to be a
Breton.  He was taken to a neighbouring cottage, and
was carefully nursed by a kind peasant, who, believing
him to be a young Breton of a noble family--for
Dicky had quickness enough to pass himself off as a
kinsman of poor young De Rohan--took great care
of him, and he was eventually able to get to Rennes,
which still held out for the Duke of Brittany, and
from there his return was an easy matter.  He fell in
with Lord Broke, who rewarded the peasant, and sent
Dicky over to the island as soon as possible.

Great were the rejoicings over Dicky, and the natural
self-complacency of that young gentleman was
considerably increased.  He became a great hero in
Newport, and was a very popular character throughout
the island.

It was said that he paid considerable attentions to
Mistress Magdalen Lisle, now not only the greatest
heiress, but declared by those who admired brunettes
the loveliest girl in the island.

He still resented that young lady having called him
a "tom-tit," but was willing to forgive her if she would
consent to share his nest.  But report said that
Mistress Lisle was waiting for someone else.

Ralph went back to Thruxton, and lived for some
years with his father and mother, when the former
died full of years and honour.  Jasper came into the
property.  Ralph, now Sir Ralph Lisle, had previously
been invited over to Briddlesford, and before old Sir
William Lisle died, he had the satisfaction to know
that the Knight, for whom his daughter waited, had
arrived at last.

When Yolande heard of it--for Ralph rode over to
Appuldurcombe to tell her--she said,--

"Ah, I told you true!  Do you mind my saying--'When
you reach the years of manhood, and are of an
age to marry, the lady of your choice will be one who
is now a girl of just that little one's age?'  That
little one was my niece, albeit I knew it not, and now
you are of an age to marry, and she is to be your wife.
So you see I was a true prophet, and you will marry
the niece instead of the aunt.  But why do I recall so
much of the world?  Go, my sweet nephew, make her
as true a husband as thou hast been true knight.  No
more happy fate could he have wished thee than that
a brave and noble man should possess the fairest lands
and the fairest maid of all the fairest isle the blue
seas of England gird."

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And now, as old Dan Chaucer hath it, "Ther is ne
moe to saie."

The Battle of St Aubin du Cormier was one of the
most bloody, as well as hardest fought, as far as the
vanguard of the Breton army was concerned, that ever
took place on French soil.  The French lost the brave
James Galliot and twelve hundred men-at-arms, while
the Breton army lost six thousand men, including
Lord Woodville, and all those who wore red crosses;
and among them the Breton nobles,--the Comtes
de Leon, De Montfort, and Pont l'Abbé; while the
poor young Seigneur De Rohan, who was only fifteen
years old, was slain with the English pages and
esquires.

The Duke of Orleans and the Prince of Orange
were taken prisoners.

The latter only saved his life by throwing himself
down among the Swiss infantry and pretending to be
dead.  He was discovered by a French archer, and
sent prisoner to Lusignan.  The Duke of Orleans
would have been beheaded had it not been for the
prayers of his deserted wife, the "good Lady Jane,"
daughter of Louis XI.  He was imprisoned for some
time, but eventually lived to marry, not only the lady
who was the cause of all this strife, but also, as his
second wife, the lovely young Tudor Princess, Mary,
great-niece of the last Lord of the Wight, who had
fought and died so valiantly by his side at St Aubin
du Cormier.

The wily old Marechal de Rieux retired to Dinan,
and held out there until the general pacification,
which ensued soon after; while the Lord d'Albret
also saved himself by flight.

The disastrous consequences of the ill-fated
expedition of Sir Edward Woodville were indicated by a
Statute, which was passed with a view to increasing
the population.  No individual was to hold a farm,
or land, or tithe of more than ten marks annual
value.

Sir Reginald Bray, a very distinguished soldier, and
old follower of Henry VII., was sent to govern the
island, but no nobleman was henceforth invested with
the independent power and authority of Lord of the
Wight, the future governors being styled Captains and
Governors.  Sir Reginald Bray was succeeded by Sir
Nicholas Wadham, after whom the first of the Isle of
Wight branch of the Worsley family came into the
island as Captain of the Wight.

But the last Lord and Captain of the Wight died
valorously in harness among his knights and esquires,
in the sunny land of France, as became a valiant
gentleman of England, and no man after him was
ever invested with such name and state.

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.. class:: center

   THE END.

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