They seemed to form a band of themselves, which those not of it had an air of avoiding, and ’twas to be seen that their company was looked at askance, and that in the bearing of each member of the group there was a defiance of the general opinion.  Roxholm sat on his horse somewhat apart from this group watching it, his kinsman and a certain Lord Twemlow, who was their host for the day, conversing near him.

My Lord Twemlow, who took no note of them, but by the involuntary casting on them of an occasional glance, when some wild outburst attracted his attention, wore a grave and almost affronted look.

“’Tis the Wildairs cronies,” Roxholm heard him say to his Lordship of Dunstanwolde.  “I hunt but seldom, purely through disgust of their unseemliness.”

“Wildairs!” exclaimed my Lord Dunstanwolde.

“Ay,” answered Twemlow, turning his horse slightly and averting his eyes; “and there cometh my reputable kinsman, Sir Jeoffry, even as we speak.”

Roxholm turned to look with some stir of feeling in his breast, since this was the man who had so early roused in him an emotion of anger and rebellion.  Across the field came pounding a great black horse, a fine big-boned brute; on him rode a tall, heavy man who must once have been of the handsomest, since even yet, in spite of years, bloated face, and careless attire, he retained a sort of dissolute beauty.  He was of huge frame and had black eyes, a red mouth, and wore his own thick and curling though grizzled black hair.

He rode with a dare-devil grace, and his cronies greeted him with a shout.

“He has the look of it,” thought Roxholm, remembering the old stories; but the next instant he gave a start.  Across the field beyond, another rider followed galloping, and at this moment came over the high hedge like a swallow, and, making the leap, gave forth a laughing shout.  Roxholm sat and stared at the creature.  ’Twas indeed a youthful figure, brilliant and curious to behold in this field of slovenly clad sportsmen.  ’Twas a boy of twelve or thereabouts riding a splendid young devil of a hunter, with a skin like black satin and a lovely, dangerous eye.  The lad was in scarlet, and no youngster of the Court was more finely clad or fitted, and not one had Roxholm ever set eyes upon whose youthful body and limbs were as splendid in line and symmetry; in truth, the beauty and fire of him were things to make a man lose his breath.  He rode as if he had been born upon his horse’s back and had never sat elsewhere from his first hour, his flowing-black hair was almost too rich and long for a boy, he had a haughty mouth for a child, though it was a crimson bow and pouting, his complexion matched it, and his black eyes, which were extraordinary big and flashing, had the devil in them.

“Pardi!” the young Marquess cried between his teeth.  “What does such a young one in such company?” Never had he beheld a thing which moved him with such strange suddenness of emotion.  He could not have explained the reason of his feeling, which was an actual excitement, and caused him to turn in his saddle to watch the boy’s every movement as he galloped forward to join the reprobate group.