wherein

we sailed to bordeaux, and in it we shall go forth and seek sir

nigel."

alleyne smiled, but shook his head. "were he alive we should

have had word of him ere now," said he. "but what is this town

before us?"

"why, it is romsey!" cried john. "see the tower of the old gray

church, and the long stretch of the nunnery. but here sits a

very holy man, and i shall give him a crown for his prayers."

three large stones formed a rough cot by the roadside, and beside

it, basking in the sun, sat the hermit, with clay-colored face,

dull eyes, and long withered hands. with crossed ankles and

sunken head. he sat as though all his life had passed out of

him, with the beads slipping slowly through his thin, yellow

fingers. behind him lay the narrow cell, clay-floored and damp,

comfortless, profitless and sordid. beyond it there lay amid the

trees the wattle-and-daub hut of a laborer, the door open, and

the single room exposed to the view. the man ruddy and yellow-

haired, stood leaning upon the spade wherewith he had been at

work upon the garden patch. from behind him came the ripple of a

happy woman's laughter, and two young urchins darted forth from

the hut, bare-legged and towsy, while the mother, stepping out,

laid her hand upon her husband's arm and watched the gambols of

the children. the hermit frowned at the untoward noise which

broke upon his prayers, but his brow relaxed as he looked upon

the broad silver piece which john held out to him.

"there lies the image of our past and of our future," cried

alleyne, as they rode on upon their way. "now, which is better,

to till god's earth, to have happy faces round one's knee, and to

love and be loved, or to sit forever moaning over one's own soul,

like a mother over a sick babe?"

"i know not about that," said john, "for it casts a great cloud

over me when i think of such matters. but i know that my crown

was well spent, for the man had the look of a very holy person.

as to the other, there was nought holy about him that i could

see, and it would be cheaper for me to pray for myself than to

give a crown to one who spent his days in digging for lettuces."

ere alleyne could answer there swung round the curve of the road

a lady's carriage drawn by three horses abreast with a postilion

upon the outer one. very fine and rich it was, with beams

painted and gilt, wheels and spokes carved in strange figures,

and over all an arched cover of red and white tapestry. beneath

its shade there sat a stout and elderly lady in a pink cote-

hardie, leaning back among a pile of cushions, and plucking out

her eyebrows with a small pair of silver tweezers. none could

seem more safe and secure and at her ease than this lady, yet

here also was a symbol of human life, for in an instant, even as

alleyne reined aside to let the carriage pass, a wheel flew out

from among its fellows, and over it all toppled--carving,

tapestry and gilt--in one wild heap, with the horses plunging,

the postilion shouting, and the lady screaming from within. in

an instant alleyne and john were on foot, and had lifted her

forth all in a shake with fear, but little the worse for her

mischance.

"now woe worth me!" she cried, "and ill fall on michael easover

of romsey! for i told him that the pin was loose, and yet he must

needs gainsay me, like the foolish daffe that he is."

"i trust that you have taken no hurt, my fair lady," said

alleyne, conducting her to the bank, upon which john had already

placed a cushion.

"nay, i have had no scath, though i have lost my silver tweezers.

now, lack-a-day! did god ever put breath into such a fool as

michael easover of romsey? but i am much beholden to you, gentle

sirs. soldiers ye are, as one may readily see. i am myself a

soldier's daughter," she added, casting a somewhat languishing

glance at john, "and my heart ever goes out to a brave man."

"we are indeed fresh from spain," quoth alleyne.

"from spain, say you? ah! it was an ill and sorry thing that so

many should throw away the lives that heaven gave them. in

sooth, it is bad for those who fall, but worse for those who bide

behind. i have but now bid farewell to one who hath lost all in

this cruel war."

"and how that, lady?"

"she is a young damsel of these parts, and she goes now into a

nunnery. alack! it is not a year since she was the fairest maid

from avon to itchen, and now it was more than i could abide to

wait at rumsey nunnery to see her put the white veil upon her

face, for she was made for a wife and not for the cloister. did

you ever, gentle sir, hear of a body of men called 'the white

company' over yonder?"

"surely so," cried both the comrades.

"her father was the leader of it, and her lover served under him

as squire. news hath come that not one of the company was left

alive, and