“Nay, not so, Lord Harry,” interrupted the third boy:  “I have heard my uncle say, many a time, that England’s archery is half her strength —­and how it was our archers at the battle of Crecy—­”

“I know all that—­how the men of Genoa had wet bow-strings, and ours dry ones,” said Henry; “but they were peasants, after all!”

“Ay; but a King of England should know how to praise and value his good yeomen.”

Henry turned on his heel, and, saying, “Well, let the arrow be whose it will, I care not for it,” walked off.

“Do you know why Harry of Lancaster goes, Arthur?” said Edward, smiling.

“No, my Lord,” replied Arthur.

“He cannot bear to hear aught of King of England,” was the answer.  “If you love me, good Arthur, vex him not with speaking of it.”

“Father Cyril would say, he ought to learn content with the rank where he was born,” said Arthur.

“Father Cyril, again!” said Prince Edward.  “You cannot live a day without speaking of him, and of your uncle.”

“I do not speak of them so much now,” said Arthur, colouring, “It is only you, Lord Edward, who never make game of me for doing so—­ though, I trow, I have taught Pierre de Greilly to let my uncle’s name alone.”

“Truly, you did so,” said Edward, laughing, “and he has scarce yet lost his black eye.  But I love to hear your tales, Arthur, of that quiet Castle, and the old Blanc Etoile, and your uncle, who taught you to ride.  Sit down here on the grass, and tell me more.  But what are you staring at so fixedly?  At the poor jaded horse, that yonder man-at-arms is urging on so painfully?”

“’Tis—­No, it is not—­Yes, ’tis Brigliador, and John Ingram himself,” cried Arthur.  “Oh, my uncle! my uncle!” And, in one moment, he had bounded across the ditch, which fenced in their exercising ground, and had rushed to meet Ingram.  “Oh, John!” exclaimed he, breathlessly, “have they done it?  Oh, tell me of Uncle Eustace!  I he alive?”

“Master Arthur!” exclaimed Ingram, stopping his wearied horse.

“Oh, tell me, Ingram,” reiterated Arthur, “is my uncle safe?”

“He is alive, Master Arthur—­that is, he was when I came away, but as sore wounded as ever I saw a Knight.  And the butcher of Brittany is upon them by this time!  And here I am sent to ask succours—­and I know no more whom to address myself, than the cock at the top of Lynwood steeple!”

“But what has chanced, John?—­make haste, and tell me.”

And John, in his own awkward and confused style, narrated how he had been entrapped by Sanchez, and the consequences of his excess.  “But,” said he, “I have vowed to our Lady of Taunton, and St. Joseph of Glastonbury, that never again—­”

Arthur had covered his face with his hands, and gave way to tears of indignation and grief, as he felt his helplessness.  But one hand was kindly withdrawn, and a gentle voice said, “Weep not, Arthur, but come with me, and my father will send relief to the Castle, and save your uncle.”