“Sir Reginald?  Which Sir Reginald has the honour of your service?” asked the Squire, to whom Leonard’s broad Somersetshire dialect seemed to present few difficulties.

“Sir Reginald Lynwood, he with the curled brown locks, next to that stern-looking old fellow with the gray hair.”

“Ay, I know him of old.  Him whom the Duke of Lancaster is pledging —­a proud, strict Englishman—­as rigid a service as any in the camp.”

“I should think so!” said Leonard.  “Up in the morn hours before the sun, to mass like a choir of novices, to clean our own arms and the Knight’s, like so many horse-boys, and if there be but a speck of rust, or a sword-belt half a finger’s length awry—­”

“Ay, ay, I once had a fortnight’s service with a Knight of that stamp, but a fortnight was enough for me, I promise you.  And yet Gaston le Maure chooses to stay with him rather than lead a merry life with Sir Perduccas d’Albret, with all to gain, and nought to lose!  A different life from the days he and I spent together of old.”

“Gaston d’Aubricour is as sharp as the Knight himself,” said Leonard, “and gibes me without ceasing; but yet I could bear it all, were it not for seeing Eustace, the clerk, preferred to me, as if I were not heir to more acres than he can ever count crowns.”

“What may then be your name, fair youth, and your inheritance?” demanded the one-eyed Squire, “for your coat of arms is new in the camp.”

“My name is Leonard Ashton; my father—­” but Leonard’s speech was cut short by a Squire who stumbled over his outstretched foot.  Both parties burst into angry exclamations, Leonard’s new acquaintance taking his part.  Men looked up, and serious consequences might have ensued, had not Gaston hastened to the spot.  “Shame on you, young malapert,” said he to his hopeful pupil.  “Cannot I leave you one moment unwatched, but you must be brawling in the Prince’s own presence?  Here, bear this bread to Sir Reginald instantly, and leave me to make your peace.  Master Clifford,” added he, as Leonard shuffled away, “’tis an uncouth slip whom Sir Reginald Lynwood has undertaken to mould into form, and if he is visited as he deserves for each piece of discourtesy, his life will not be long enough for amendment, so I must e’en beg you to take my apology.”

“Most readily, Master d’Aubricour,” replied Clifford; “there would not have been the least offence had the youth only possessed a civil tongue.”

“Is not he the son of one of your wealthy Englishmen?” asked the one-eyed Squire, carelessly.

“Ha!  Why should you think so?” said Gaston, turning sharply; “because he shows so much good nurture?”

“Because his brains are grown fat with devouring his father’s beeves, fare on which you seem to thrive, le Maure,” said the one-eyed, “though you were not wont to like English beef and English discipline better than Gascon wine and Gascon freedom.  I begin to think that the cub of the Black Wolf of the Pyrenees is settling down into a tame English house-dog.”