“Excellent,” exclaimed the Knight.  Never talk to me of the wonderful little birds of the Canaries, unless to call thyself one.  I fancy thy verses a tribute to the celestial attractions of Mistress Eveline Dunning.”

“And now let me hear thee,” said Arundel.

“I did match my first lay,” said Sir Christopher, “to thy youthful blood.  Now will I give thee one more befitting my years and gravity,” and adapting the words to a wild foreign air, the Knight sent his rich full voice ringing through the wood.

“Who, on Glory’s pinion,
Shall mount the upper air,
And write his name with sunbeams
Sublimely there?

“Blare of trumpets shivering
Above the reeling fight,
Proves the inhuman challenge—­
The warrior’s right?

“Son of thoughtful Science,
Unthinking of renown,
Is thine the name to thunder
The ages down?”

“Hist!” he said, interrupting the song.  “What is it I see gliding in yonder thicket?  Stand fast, Master Arundel, while I go forward to reconnoitre.”

The young man would have accompanied him, but this Sir Christopher imperatively forbade.  “Thou art under my lead and protection,” he said, “and foul shame were it, should I expose thee to a danger which I should face myself alone;” and in spite of his urgency, Arundel was obliged to remain behind.

The Knight was gone, perhaps, a quarter of an hour, and Arundel began to be anxious at the length of his absence, and had stepped forward a few rods to seek him, when he made his appearance.

“If it were a wild beast, or anything that could harm us,” he cried, as he approached, “it has glided off into the bushes.”

“Then shall I entreat the continuance of thy song.  I would like to hear resolved the question which it pleases the poet to ask.”

“I care not to sing more now,” returned the Knight.  “My voice, I perceive, begins to roughen, and brawls along more like a shallow brook, over pebbles, than the flow of a deep, equable stream, It were to shame the brave words.”

This determination Arundel was unable to alter, and he could not avoid ascribing it quite as much to a change of opinion in his companion, respecting the prudence of singing in that wild region, as to any assumed roughness of voice.  Thinking thus, he unslung his gun, and examined carefully the priming, holding himself in readiness for any emergency.  He noticed, however, to his surprise that no such precautions were adopted by Sir Christopher, who, though in silence, walked with as fearless a step as ever, and allowed his piece to remain upon his back.

The shades of evening were now beginning to wrap objects in obscurity, and it became necessary to look out for a place of rest.  In finding one fitted for the purpose, the Knight betrayed no embarrassment.

“There should be,” he said, “a small cave in the neighborhood, wherein we may be sheltered.  I will lead thee thither in a short time.”