His room was only across the landing, his door just opposite.  It also was strewn with implements and weapons.  But there was a far greater number of tools; he was an expert and artistic workman, and his table and his seat, unlike the rude blocks in Felix’s room, were tastefully carved.  His seat, too, had a back, and he had even a couch of his own construction.  By his bedhead hung his sword, his most valued and most valuable possession.  It was one which had escaped the dispersion of the ancients; it had been ancient even in their days, and of far better work than they themselves produced.

Broad, long, straight, and well-balanced, it appeared capable of cutting through helmet and mail, when wielded by Oliver’s sturdy arm.  Such a sword could not have been purchased for money; money, indeed, had often been offered for it in vain; persuasion, and even covert threats from those higher in authority who coveted it, were alike wasted.  The sword had been in the family for generations, and when the Baron grew too old, or rather when he turned away from active life, the second son claimed it as the fittest to use it.  The claim was tacitly allowed; at all events, he had it, and meant to keep it.

In a corner stood his lance, long and sharp, for use on horse-back, and by it his saddle and accoutrements.  The helmet and the shirt of mail, the iron greaves and spurs, the short iron mace to bang at the saddle-bow, spoke of the knight, the man of horses and war.

Oliver’s whole delight was in exercise and sport.  The boldest rider, the best swimmer, the best at leaping, at hurling the dart or the heavy hammer, ever ready for tilt or tournament, his whole life was spent with horse, sword, and lance.  A year younger than Felix, he was at least ten years physically older.  He measured several inches more round the chest; his massive shoulders and immense arms, brown and hairy, his powerful limbs, tower-like neck, and somewhat square jaw were the natural concomitants of enormous physical strength.

All the blood and bone and thew and sinew of the house seemed to have fallen to his share; all the fiery, restless spirit and defiant temper; all the utter recklessness and warrior’s instinct.  He stood every inch a man, with dark, curling, short-cut hair, brown cheek and Roman chin, trimmed moustache, brown eye, shaded by long eyelashes and well-marked brows; every inch a natural king of men.  That very physical preponderance and animal beauty was perhaps his bane, for his comrades were so many, and his love adventures so innumerable, that they left him no time for serious ambition.

Between the brothers there was the strangest mixture of affection and repulsion.  The elder smiled at the excitement and energy of the younger; the younger openly despised the studious habits and solitary life of the elder.  In time of real trouble and difficulty they would have been drawn together; as it was, there was little communion; the one went his way, and the other his.  There was perhaps rather an inclination to detract from each other’s achievements that to praise them, a species of jealousy or envy without personal dislike, if that can be understood.  They were good friends, and yet kept apart.