e in their eyes the

scrambling crowd in front of them. they paused, however, at the

bridge, and, leaning their elbows upon the stonework, they stood

looking down at their own faces in the glassy stream, and at the

swift flash of speckled trout against the tawny gravel.

sir nigel was a slight man of poor stature, with soft lisping

voice and gentle ways. so short was he that his wife, who was no

very tall woman, had the better of him by the breadth of three

fingers. his sight having been injured in his early wars by a

basketful of lime which had been emptied over him when he led the

earl of derby's stormers up the breach at bergerac, he had

contracted something of a stoop, with a blinking, peering

expression of face. his age was six and forty, but the constant

practice of arms. together with a cleanly life, had preserved

his activity and endurance unimpaired, so that from a distance he

seemed to have the slight limbs and swift grace of a boy. his

face, however, was tanned of a dull yellow tint, with a leathery,

poreless look, which spoke of rough outdoor doings, and the

little pointed beard which he wore, in deference to the

prevailing fashion, was streaked and shot with gray. his

features were small, delicate, and regular, with clear-cut,

curving nose, and eyes which jutted forward from the lids. his

dress was simple and yet spruce. a flandrish hat of beevor,

bearing in the band the token of our lady of embrun, was drawn

low upon the left side to hide that ear which had been partly

shorn from his head by a flemish man-at-arms in a camp broil

before tournay. his cote-hardie, or tunic, and trunk-hosen were

of a purple plum color, with long weepers which hung from either

sleeve to below his knees. his shoes were of red leather,

daintily pointed at the toes, but not yet prolonged to the

extravagant lengths which the succeeding reign was to bring into

fashion. a gold-embroidered belt of knighthood encircled his

loins, with his arms, five roses gules on a field argent,

cunningly worked upon the clasp. so stood sir nigel loring upon

the bridge of avon, and talked lightly with his lady.

and, certes, had the two visages alone been seen, and the

stranger been asked which were the more likely to belong to the

bold warrior whose name was loved by the roughest soldiery of

europe, he had assuredly selected the lady's. her face was large

and square and red, with fierce, thick brows, and the eyes of one

who was accustomed to rule. taller and broader than her husband,

her flowing gown of sendall, and fur-lined tippet, could not

conceal the gaunt and ungraceful outlines of her figure. it was

the age of martial women. the deeds of black agnes of dunbar, of

lady salisbury and of the countess of montfort, were still fresh

in the public minds. with such examples before them the wives of

the english captains had become as warlike as their mates, and

ordered their castles in their absence with the prudence and

discipline of veteran seneschals. right easy were the montacutes

of their castle of twynham, and little had they to dread from

roving galley or french squadron, while lady mary loring had the

ordering of it. yet even in that age it was thought that, though

a lady might have a soldier's heart, it was scarce as well that

she should have a soldier's face. there were men who said that

of all the stern passages and daring deeds by which sir nigel

loring had proved the true temper of his courage, not the least

was his wooing and winning of so forbidding a dame.

"i tell you, my fair lord," she was saying, "that it is no fit

training for a demoiselle: hawks and hounds, rotes and citoles

singing a french rondel, or reading the gestes de doon de

mayence, as i found her yesternight, pretending sleep, the

artful, with the corner of the scroll thrusting forth from under

her pillow. lent her by father christopher of the priory,

forsooth --that is ever her answer. how shall all this help her

when she has castle of her own to keep, with a hundred mouths all

agape for beef and beer?"

"true, my sweet bird, true," answered the knight, picking a

comfit from his gold drageoir. "the maid is like the young

filly, which kicks heels and plunges for very lust of life. give

her time, dame, give her time."

"well, i know that my father would have given me, not time, but a

good hazel-stick across my shoulders. ma foi! i know not what

the world is coming to, when young maids may flout their elders.

i wonder that you do not correct her, my fair lord."

"nay, my heart's comfort, i never raised hand to woman yet, and

it would be a passing strange thing if i began on my own flesh

and blood. it was a woman's hand which cast this lime into mine

eyes, and though i saw her stoop, and might well have stopped her

ere she threw, i deemed it unworthy of my knighthood to