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more than the price which Nigel had received。 In vain the
faithful Aylward fretted and fumed and muttered a prayer that the
day would come when he might feather a shaft in the merchant's
portly paunch。 The money had to be paid。
Thence Nigel hurried to Wat the armorer's and there he bought that
very suit for which he had yearned so short a time before。 Then
and there he tried it on in the booth； Wat and his boy walking
round him with spanner and wrench； fixing bolts and twisting
rivets。
〃How is that； my fair sir？〃 cried the armorer as he drew the
bassinet over the head and fastened it to the camail which
extended to the shoulders。 〃I swear by Tubal Cain that it fits
you as the shell fits the crab！ A finer suit never came from
Italy or Spain。〃
Nigel stood in front of a burnished shield which served as a
mirror； and he turned this way and that； preening himself like a
little shining bird。 His smooth breastplate； his wondrous joints
with their deft protection by the disks at knee and elbow and
shoulder； the beautifully flexible gauntlets and sollerets； the
shirt of mail and the close…fitting greave…plates were all things
of joy and of beauty in his eyes。 He sprang about the shop to
show his lightness； and then running out he placed his hand on the
pommel and vaulted into Pommers' saddle； while Wat and his boy
applauded in the doorway。
Then springing off and running into the shop again he clanked down
upon his knees before the image of the Virgin upon the smithy
wall。 There from his heart he prayed that no shadow or stain
should come upon his soul or his honor whilst these arms incased
his body； and that he might be strengthened to use them for noble
and godly ends。 A strange turn this to a religion of peace； and
yet for many a century the sword and the faith had upheld each
other and in a darkened world the best ideal of the soldier had
turned in some dim groping fashion toward the light。 〃Benedictus
dominus deus meus qui docet manus meas ad Praelium et digitos meos
ad bellum！〃 There spoke the soul of the knightly soldier。
So the armor was trussed upon the armorer's mule and went back
with them to Tilford； where Nigel put it on once more for the
pleasure of the Lady Ermyntrude； who clapped her skinny hands and
shed tears of mingled pain and joy … pain that she should lose
him； joy that he should go so bravely to the wars。 As to her own
future； it had been made easy for her； since it was arranged that
a steward should look to the Tilford estate whilst she had at her
disposal a suite of rooms in royal Windsor； where with other
venerable dames of her own age and standing she could spend the
twilight of her days discussing long…forgotten scandals and
whispering sad things about the grandfathers and the grandmothers
of the young courtiers all around them。 There Nigel might leave
her with an easy mind when he turned his face to France。
But there was one more visit to be paid and one more farewell to
be spoken ere Nigel could leave the moorlands where he had dwelled
so long。 That evening he donned his brightest tunic； dark purple
velvet of Genoa； with trimming of miniver； his hat with the
snow…white feather curling round the front； and his belt of
embossed silver round his loins。 Mounted on lordly Pommers； with
his hawk upon wrist and his sword by his side； never did fairer
young gallant or one more modest in mind set forth upon such an
errand。 It was but the old Knight of Duplin to whom he would say
farewell； but the Knight of Duplin had two daughters； Edith and
Mary； and Edith was the fairest maid in all the heather…country。
Sir John Buttesthorn； the Knight of Duplin； was so called because
he had been present at that strange battle； some eighteen years
before； when the full power of Scotland had been for a moment
beaten to the ground by a handful of adventurers and mercenaries；
marching under the banner of no nation； but fighting in their own
private quarrel。 Their exploit fills no pages of history； for it
is to the interest of no nation to record it； and yet the rumor
and fame of the great fight bulked large in those times； for it
was on that day when the flower of Scotland was left dead upon the
field； that the world first understood that a new force had arisen
in war； and that the English archer； with his robust courage and
his skill with the weapon which he had wielded from his boyhood；
was a power with which even the mailed chivalry of Europe had
seriously to reckon。
Sir John after his return from Scotland had become the King's own
head huntsman； famous through all England for his knowledge of
venery； until at last； getting overheavy for his horses； he had
settled in modest comfort into the old house of Cosford upon the
eastern slope of the Hindhead hill。 Here； as his face grew redder
and his beard more white； he spent the evening of his days； amid
hawks and hounds； a flagon of spiced wine ever at his elbow； and
his swollen foot perched upon a stool before him。 There it was
that many an old comrade broke his journey as he passed down the
rude road which led from London to Portsmouth； and thither also
came the young gallants of the country to hear the stout knight's
tales of old wars； or to learn； from him that lore of the forest
and the chase which none could teach so well as he。
But sooth to say； whatever the old knight might think； it was not
merely his old tales and older wine which drew the young men to
Cosford； but rather the fair face of his younger daughter； or the
strong soul and wise counsel of the elder。 Never had two more
different branches sprung from the same trunk。 Both were tall and
of a queenly graceful figure。 But there all resemblance began and
ended。
Edith was yellow as the ripe corn； blue…eyed； winning；
mischievous； with a chattering tongue； a merry laugh； and a smile
which a dozen of young gallants； Nigel of Tilford at their head；
could share equally amongst them。 Like a young kitten she played
with all things that she found in life； and。 some there were who
thought that already the claws could be felt amid the patting of
her velvet touch。
Mary was dark as night； grave…featured； plain…visaged； with steady
brown eyes looking bravely at the world from under a strong black
arch of brows。 None could call her beautiful； and when her fair
sister cast her arm round her and placed her cheek against hers；
as was her habit when company was there； the fairness of the one
and the plainness of the other leaped visibly to the eyes of all；
each the clearer for that hard contrast。 And yet； here and there；
there was one who； looking at her strange； strong face； and at the
passing gleams far down in her dark eyes； felt that this silent
woman with her proud bearing and her queenly grace had in her
something of strength； of reserve and of mystery which was more to
them than all the dainty glitter of her sister。
Such were the ladies of Cosford toward whom Nigel Loring rode that
night with doublet of Genoan velvet and the new white feather in
his cap。
He had ridden over Thursley Ridge past that old stone where in
days gone by at the place of Thor the wild Saxons worshiped their
war…god。 Nigel looked at it with a wary eye and spurred Pommers
onward as he passed it； for still it was said that wild fires
danced round it on the moonless nights； and they who had ears for
such things could hear the scream and sob of those whose lives had
been ripped from them that the fiend might be honored。 Thor's
stone； Thor's jumps； Thor's punch…bowl … the whole country…side
was one grim monument to the God of Battles； though the pious
monks had changed his uncouth name for that of the Devil his
father； so that it was the Devil's jumps and the Devil's
punch…bowl of which they spoke。 Nigel glanced back at the old
gray boulder； and he felt for an instant a shudder pass through
his stout heart。 Was it the chill of the evening air； or was it
that some inner voice had whispered to him of the day when he also
might lie bound on such a rock and have such a blood…stained pagan
crew howling around him。
An instant later the rock and his vague fear and all things else
had passed from his mind； for there； down the yellow sandy path；
the setting sun gleaming on her golden hair； her lithe figure
bending and swaying with every heave of the cantering horse； was
none other than the same fair Edith； whose face had come so often
betwixt him and his sleep。 His blood rushed hot to his face at
the sight； for fearless of all else； his spirit was attracted and
yet daunted by the delicate mystery of woman。 To his pure and
knightly soul not Edith alone； but every woman； sat high and
aloof； enthroned and exalted； with a thousand mystic excellencies
and virtues which raised her far above the rude world of man。
There was joy in contact with them； and yet there was fear； fear
lest his own unworthiness； his untrained tongue or rougher ways
should in some way break rudely upon this delicate and tender
thing。 Such was his thought as the white horse cantered toward
him； but a moment later his vague doubts were set at rest by the
frank voice of the young girl； who waved her whip in merry
gree