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
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