 INTRODUCTION OF MEN OF IRON The year 1400 opened with more than usual peacefulness in England. Only a few months before, Richard II, weak, wicked, and treacherous, had been dethroned, and Henry IV declared King in his stead. But it was only a seeming peacefulness, lasting but for a little while. For though King Henry proved himself a just and a merciful man, as justice and mercy went with the men of iron of those days, and though he did not care to shed blood needlessly, there were many noble families who had been benefited by King Richard during his reign, and who had lost somewhat of their power and prestige from the coming-in of the new king. Among these were a number of great lords, the dukes of Albemarle, Surrey, and Exeter, the Marquis of Dorset, the Earl of Gloucester, and others, who had been degraded to their former titles and estates, from which King Richard had lifted them. These and others brewed a secret plot to take King Henry's life, which plot might have succeeded had not one of their own number betrayed them. Their plan had been to fall upon the king and his adherents, and to massacre them during a great tournament, to be held at Oxford. But Henry did not appear at the lists, whereupon, knowing that he had been lodging at Windsor with only a few attendants, the conspirators marched thither against him. In the meantime the king had been warned of the plot, so that instead of finding him in the royal castle, they discovered through their scouts that he had hurried to London, whence he was even then marching against them at the head of a considerable army. So nothing was left them but flight. Some betook themselves one way, some another, some sought sanctuary here, some there. But one and another they were all of them caught and killed. The Earl of Kent, one time Duke of Surrey, and the Earl of Salisbury were beheaded in the marketplace of Sarenster. Lord LaDispenser, once the Earl of Gloucester, and Lord Lumley met the same fate at Bristol. The Earl of Huntingdon was taken in the Essex Finns, carried to the castle of the Duke of Gloucester, whom he had betrayed to his death in King Richard's time, and was there killed by the castle people. Those few who found friends faithful and bold enough to afford them shelter, dragged those friends down in their own ruin. Just such a case was that of the father of the boy hero of this story, the blind Lord Gilbert Reginald Foworth, baron of Foworth and Easterbridge, who though having no part in the plot, suffered through it ruin, utter, and complete. He had been a faithful counsellor and adviser to King Richard, and perhaps it was this, as much and more than his roundabout connection with the plot, that brought upon him the punishment he suffered. END OF THE INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I. MILE'S FALLWARTH was spent eight years of age at that time, and it was only afterwards, and when he grew old enough to know more of the ins and outs of the matter, that he could remember by bits and pieces the things that afterwards happened. How one evening at night came clattering into the courtyard upon a horse, red nostril and smeared with the sweat and foam of a desperate ride. Sir John Dale, a dear friend of the blind Lord. Even though so young, Miles knew that something very serious had happened to make Sir John so pale and taggered, and he dimly remembered leaning against the night's iron-covered knees, licking up into his gloomy face, and asking him if he was sick to look so strange. Thereupon those who had been too troubled before to notice him, bethought themselves of him, and sent him to bed, rebellious at having to go so early. He remembered how the next morning, licking out of a window high up under the eaves, he saw a great troop of horsemen come riding into the courtyard beneath, where a powdering of snow had whitened everything, and of how the leader, a knight, clad in black armor, dismounted and entered the great hall doorway below, followed by several of the band. He remembered how some of the castle women were standing in a frightened group upon the landing of the stairs, talking together in low voices about a matter he did not understand, accepting that the armed men who had ridden into the courtyard had come for Sir John Dale. None of the women paid any attention to him, so, shunning their notice, he ran off down the winding stairs, expecting every moment to be called back again by some one of them. A crowd of castle people, all very serious and quiet, were gathered in the hall, where a number of strange-minute arms lounged upon the benches, while two billmen in still-caps and leather and jacks stood guarding the great door, the butts of their weapons resting upon the ground, and the staves crossed, barring the doorway. In the enter-room was the knight in black armor, whom Miles had seen from the window. He was sitting at the table, his great helmet lying upon the bench beside him, and a quart beaker of spiced wine at his elbow. A clerk sat at the other end of the same table, with ink-corn in one hand, and pen in the other, and a parchment spread in front of him. Master Robert, the castle steward, stood before the knight, who every now and then put to him a question, which the other would answer, and the clerk write the answer down upon the parchment. His father stood with his back to the fireplace, looking down upon the floor with his blind eyes, his brows drawn moodily together, and the scar of the great wound that he had received at the Tournament of York, the wound that had made him blind, showing red across his forehead, as it always did when he was angered or troubled. There was something about it all that frightened Miles, who crept to his father's side, and slid his little hand into the palm that hung limp and inert. In answer to the touch, his father grasped the handle tightly, but did not seem otherwise to notice that he was there. Neither did the Black Knight pay any attention to him, but continued putting his questions to Master Robert. Then suddenly there was a commotion in the hall without, loud voices, and a hurrying here and there. The Black Knight half arose, grasping a heavy iron mace that lay upon the bench beside him, and the next moment Sir John Dale himself, as pale as death, walked into the ante-chamber. He stopped in the very middle of the room. "'I yield me to my Lord's grace and mercy,' said he to the Black Knight, and they were the last words he ever uttered in this world. The Black Knight shouted out some words of command, and swinging up the iron mace in his hand, strode forward clanking toward Sir John, who raised his arm as though to shield himself from the blow. Two or three of those who stood in the hall without came running into the room with drawn swords and veils, and little Miles, crying out with terror, hid his face in his father's long gown. The next instant came the sound of a heavy blow and of a groan, then another blow and the sound of one falling upon the ground, then the clashing of steel, and in the midst Lord Faworth crying in a dreadful voice. "'Thou traitor! Thou coward! Thou murderer!' Master Robert snatched Miles away from his father and bore him out of the room in spite of his screams and struggles, and he remembered just one instant sight of Sir John lying still and silent upon his face, and of the Black Knight standing above him with the terrible mace in his hand stained a dreadful red. It was the next day that Lord and Lady Faworth and little Miles, together with three of the more faithful of their people, left the castle. His memory of past things held a picture for miles of old Dick and Bowman standing over him in the silence of midnight with a lighted lamp in his hand, and with it a recollection of being bidden to hush when he would have spoken, and of being dressed by Dickon and one of the women bewildered with sleep, shuddering and chattering with cold. He remembered being wrapped in the sheepskin that lay at the foot of his bed, and of being carried in Dick and Bowman's arms down the silent darkness of the winding stairway, but the great black giant shadow swaying and flickering upon the stone wall as the dull flame of the lamp swayed and flickered in the cold breathing of the night air. Below were his father and mother, and two or three others. A stranger stood warming his hands at a newly made fire, and little Miles, as he peeped from out of the warm sheepskin, saw that he was in riding boots and was covered with mud. He did not know till long years afterwards that the stranger was a messenger sent by a friend at the king's court, bidding his father fly for safety. They who stood there by the red blaze of the fire were all very still, talking and whispers and walking on tiptoes, and Miles' mother hugged him in her arms, sheepskin and all, kissing him, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, and whispering to him, as though he could understand their trouble, that they were about to leave their home forever. Then Dick and Bowman carried him out into the strangeness of the winter midnight. Outside beyond the frozen moat, where the Osears stood stark and stiff in their winter nakedness, was a group of dark figures waiting for them with horses. In the pallid moonlight Miles recognized the well-known face of Father Edward, the prior of St. Mary's. After that came a long ride through that silent night upon the saddle-bow in front of Dick and Bowman, then a deep, heavy sleep that fell upon him in spite of the galloping horses. When next he woke the sun was shining, and his home and his whole life were changed. CHAPTER II From the time the family escaped from Fowlworth Castle that midwinter night, to the time Miles was sixteen years old, he knew nothing of the great world beyond Crosby Dale. A fair was held twice in a twelve-month at the market town of Wiseby, and three times in the seven years old Dick and Bowman took the lad to see the sights at that place. Beyond these three glimpses of the outer world he lived almost as secluded a life as one of the neighboring monks of St. Mary's Priory. Crosby Holt, their new home, was different enough from Fowlworth or Easterbridge Castle, the former baronial seats of Lord Fowlworth. It was a long, low, straw-thatched farmhouse, once when the churchlands were divided into two holdings, one of the bailiff's houses. All around were fruitful farms of the Priory, tilled by well-to-do tenant-holders, and rich with fields of waving grain and meadowlands where sheep and cattle grazed in flocks and herds, for in those days the churchlands were under church rule and were governed by church laws, and there, when war and famine and waste and sloth blighted the outside world, harvest flourished and were gathered and sheep were sheared and cows were milked in peace and quietness. The Priory of St. Mary's owed much, if not all, of the church prosperity to the blind Lord Fowlworth, and now he was paying it back with a haven of refuge from the ruin that his former patron had brought upon himself by giving shelter to Sir John Dale. I fancy that most boys do not love the grinding of school-life, the lessons to be conned, the closed application during study hours. It is not often pleasant to brisk, lively lads to be so cooped up. I wonder what the boys of today would have thought of Miles's training. With him that training was not only of the mind but of the body as well, and for seven years it was almost unremitting. Thou hast thine own way to make in the world, Sarah, his father said, more than once, when the boy complained of the grinding hardness of his life, and to make one's way in those days meant a thousand times more than it does now. It meant not only a heart to feel and a brain to think, but a hand quick and strong to strike in battle, and a body tough to endure the wounds and blows in return. And so it was that Miles's body as well as his mind had to be trained to meet the needs of the dark age in which he lived. Every morning, winter or summer, rain or shine, he tramped away six long miles to the priory school, and in the evenings his mother taught him French. Miles, being prejudiced in the school of thought of his day, rebelled not a little at that last branch of his studies. Why must I learn that vile tongue? said he. Call it not vile, said the blind old Lord Grimly, be like, when thou art grown a man, thou till have to find thy fortune in France land, for England is happily no place for such as be of Falworth blood. And in after years, true to his father's prediction, the vile tongue served him well. As for his physical training, that pretty well filled up the hours between his morning studies at the monastery and his evening studies at home. Then it was that old Dickon Bowman took him in hand, then whom none could be better fitted to shape his young body to strength and his hands to skill and arms. The old Bowman had served with Lord Falworth's father under the Black Prince, both in France and Spain, and in long years of war had gained a practical knowledge of arms that few could surpass. Besides the use of the broadsword, the shortsword, the quarterstaff, and the cudgel, he taught Miles to shoot so skillfully with the long bow and the crossbow that not a lad in the countryside was his match at the village buts. Attack and defense with the lance, and throwing the knife and dagger were also part of his training. Then in addition to this more regular part of his physical training, Miles was taught in another branch not so often included in the military education of the day, the art of wrestling. It happened that a fellow lived in Crosby Village by name Ralph the Smith, who was the greatest wrestler in the countryside, and had worn the champion belt for three years. Every Sunday afternoon in fair weather he came to teach Miles the art, and being wonderfully adept in bodily feats, he soon grew so quick and active and firm-footed that he could cast any lad under twenty years of age, living within a range of five miles. It is main, un-gentle arms-crath that he learnedeth, said Lord Foworth, one day, to prior Edward, saving only the broadsword, the dagger, and the lance, there is but little that a gentleman of his strain may use. Nethales, he gaineth quickness and suppleness, and if he has true blood in his veins, he will acquire nightly art truly quick when the time cometh to learn them. But hard in grinding, as Miles' life was, it was not entirely without pleasures. There were many boys living in Crosby Dale and the village, yeomans and farmer-sons, to be sure, but nevertheless lads of his own age, and that, after all, is the main requirement for friendship in boyhood's world. Then there was the river to bathe in, there were the hills and valleys to roam over, and the wooled and woodland with their wealth of nuts and bird's-ness, and what-not, of boyhood's treasures. Once he gained a triumph that for many a day was very sweet and under the tongue of his memory. As was said before, he had been three times to the market-town at fair-time, and upon the last of these occasions he had fought about of quarter-staff with a young fellow of twenty, and had been the conqueror. He was then only a little over fourteen years old. Old Dickon, who had gone with him to the fair, had met some cronies of his own, with whom he had sat gossiping in the ale-booth, leaving Miles for the nonce to shiffer himself. By and by the old man had noticed a crowd-gathered at one part of the fair-ground, and snuffing a fight had gone running, ale-pot in hand. Then, peering over the shoulders of the crowd, he had seen his young master, stripped to the waist, fighting like a gladiator, with a fellow, a head taller than himself. Dickon was about to force his way through the crowd, and dragged them asunder. But a second look had showed his practice eye that Miles was not only holding his own, but was in the way of winning the victory. So he had stood with the others, looking on, withholding himself from any interference, and whatever upgrading might be necessary until the fight had been brought to a triumphant close. Lord Foworth never heard directly of the redoubtable affair, but Old Dickon was not so silent with the common folk of Crosby Dale, and so no doubt the father had some inkling of what had happened. It was shortly after this notable event that Miles was formally initiated into squirehood. His father and mother, as was the custom, stood sponsors for him. By them, each bearing a lighted taper, he was escorted to the altar. It was that St. Mary's priory, and prior Edward blessed the sword, and girded it to the lad's side. No one was present but the four, and when the good prior had given the benediction, and had signed the cross upon his forehead, Miles's mother stooped and kissed his brow, just where the priest's finger had drawn the holy sign. Her eyes brim bright with tears as she did so. Poor lady! Perhaps she only then and for the first time realized how big her fledgling was growing for his nest. Henceforth, Miles had the right to wear a sword. Miles had ended his fifteenth year. He was a bonny lad, with brown face, curling hair, a square strong chin, and a pair of merry laughing blue eyes. His shoulders were broad, his chest was thick of girth, his muscles and thues were as tough as oak. The day upon which he was sixteen years old, as he came whistling home from the monastery school, he was met by Dickon Bowman. Master Miles, said the old man with a snuffle in his voice, Master Miles, thy father would see thee in his chamber, and bade me send thee to him, as soon as thou didst come home. Oh, Master Miles, I fear me that be like thou art going to leave home to-morrow day. Miles stopped short. To leave home, he cried. I, said old Dickon, be like thou go as to some grand castle to live there, and be a page there, and what not, and then happily a gentleman at arms and some great lords pay. What coil is this about castles and lords and gentleman at arms? said Miles. What talk is thou of Dickon, art thou jesting? Nay, said Dickon, I am not jesting, but go to thy father, and thou wilt presently know all. Only this I do say, that it is like thou leaveest us till-morrow day. And so it was, as Dickon had said, Miles was to leave home the very next morning. He found his father and mother and prior Edward together, waiting for his coming. We three have been talking it over this morning, said his father, and so think, each one, that the time hath come for thee to quit this poor home of ours, and thou stay here ten years longer, thou wilt be no more to fit to go than thou. Tomorrow I will give thee a letter to my kinsman, the Earl of Maccorth. He has driven in these days, and I have fallen away. But time was, he and I were true sworn companions, and plighted together in friendship, never to be sundered. Me thinks, as I remember him, he will abide by his plighted troth, and will give thee his aid to rise in the world. So, as I said, tomorrow morning, thou shalt set forth with Dickon Bowman, and shall go to Castle Devlin, and there deliver this letter, which prayeth him to give thee a place in his household. Thou mayest have this afternoon to thyself, to make ready such things as thou shalt take with thee, and bid me Dickon to take the grey horse to the village, and have it shod. Prior Edward had been standing, looking out of the window. As Lord Fowlworth ended, he turned. And, Myles, he said, thou wilt need some money, so I will give thee as a loan, forty shillings, which some day thou mayest return to me as thou wilt. For this, no, Myles, a man cannot do in the world without money. Thy father hath it ready for thee in the chest, and will give it to thee to-morrow ere thou goest. Lord Fowlworth had the grim strength of manhood's hard sense to upbear him in sending his son into the world, but the poor lady mother had nothing of that to uphold her. No doubt it was as hard, then, as it is now, for the mother to see the nestling thrust from the nest to shift for itself. What tears were shed, what words of love were spoken to the only man-child, none but the mother and the son ever knew? The next morning Myles and the old bowman rode away, and no doubt to the boy himself the dark shadows of leaf-taking were lost in the golden light of hope as he rode out into the great world to seek his fortune. Org. Recording by Kevin Kivicoe of Arlington Heights, Illinois. Men of Iron. By Howard Pyle. Chapter 3 What Myles remembered of Fowlworth loomed great and grand and big, as things do in the memory of childhood. But even memory could not make Fowlworth the equal of Devlin Castle when, as he and Dickon Bowman rode out of Devlin Town across the great rude stone bridge that spanned the river, he first saw rising above the crowns of the trees those huge, hoary walls and the steep roofs and chimneys clustered thickly together like the roofs and chimneys of a town. The castle was built upon a plateau like rise of ground, which was enclosed by the outer wall. It was surrounded on three sides by a loop-like bend of the river, and on the fourth was protected by a deep, broad artificial moat, almost as wide as the stream from which it was fed. The road from the town wound for a little distance along by the edge of this moat, as Myles and the old Bowman galloped by with the entering echo of their horses who feats rattling back from the smooth stone face of the walls. The lad looked up, wondering at the height and strength of the great ancient fortress. In his air castle building, Myles had pictured the earrow receiving him as the son of his one-time comrade in arms, receiving him, perhaps, with somewhat of the rustic warmth that he knew at Crosby Dale. But now, as he stared at those massive walls from below and realized his own insignificance and the greatness of this great earl, he felt the first keen helpless ache of homesickness shoot through his breast, and his heart yearned for Crosby Holt again. Then they thundered across the bridge that spanned the moat and threw the dark shadows of the great gaping gateway, and Dickon, bidding him stay for a moment, rode forward to bespeak the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper gave the two in charge of one of the men-at-arms who were lounging upon a bench in the archway, who, in turn, gave them into the care of one of the house servants in the outer courtyard. So, having been passed from one to another and having answered many questions, Myles in due time found himself in the outer waiting room, sitting beside Dickon Bowman upon a wooden bench that stood along the wall under the great arch of a glazed window. For a while the poor country lads sat stupidly bewildered. He was aware of people coming and going. He was aware of talk and laughter sounding around him. But he thought of nothing but his aching homesickness and the oppression of his utter littleness in the busy life of this great castle. Meantime old Dickon Bowman was staring about him with huge interest, every now and then nudging his young master, calling his attention now to this and now to that, until it last the lad began to awaken somewhat from his despondency to the things around. Besides those servants and others who came and went, and a nod of six or eight men at arms with bills and poleaxes who stood at the farther doorway talking together in low tones, now and then, broken by a stifled laugh, was a group of four young squires who lounged upon a bench beside a doorway hidden by an eras, and upon them Myles' eyes lit with a sudden interest. Three of the four were about his own age, one was a year or two older, and all four were dressed in the black and yellow uniform of the house of Beaumont. Myles plucked the Beaumont by the sleeve. Be they Squires, Dickon? said he, nodding towards the door. Hey, said Dickon? Aye, they be Squires. And will my station be with them? asked the boy. Aye, and the Earl take thee to service, though happily be taken as Squire. Myles stared at them, and then, of a sudden, was aware that the young men were talking of him. He knew it by the way they eyed him as scants, and spoke, now and then, in one another's ears. One of the four, a gay young fellow, with long riding boots laced with green laces, said a few words. The others gave a laugh, and poor Myles, knowing how ungainly he must seem to them, felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and shyly turned his head. Suddenly, as though stirred by an impulse, the same lad who had just created the laugh arose from the bench, and came directly across the room to where Myles and the bowman sat. Give thee good den, said he. What beest thy name, and whence comest thou? and may I make bold so to ask? My name is Myles Fawworth, said Myles, and I come from Crosby Dale, bearing a letter to my lord. Never did I hear of Crosby Dale, said the Squire. But what seekest here, if so be, I may ask that much? I come seeking service, said Myles, and would enter as an Esquire, such as ye be in my lord's household. Myles knew acquaintance, grinned, Thoualt make a droll Squire to wait in the lord's household, said he. Has't ever been in such service? Nay, said Myles. I have only been at school, and learned Ladon and French, and what not. But Dick and Bowman here hath taught me use of arms. The young Squire laughed outright, By a lady thy talk doth tickle me, friend Myles, said he. Thinks thou such matters will gain thee footing here? But stay. Thou didst say anon that thou hadst a letter to my lord? From whom is it? It is from my father, said Myles. He is of noble blood, but fallen in estate. He is a kinsman of my lord's, and one time his comrade in arms. Sayest so, said the other, Then may hap thy chances are not so ill after all. Then after a moment he added, My name is Francis Cascone, and I will stand thy friend in this matter. Get thy letter ready, for my lord and his grace of York are within, and come forth anon. The archbishop is on his way to Dalworth, and my lord escorts him so far as upping him. I and those others are to go along. Dost thou know my lord by sight? Nay, said Myles. I know him not. Then I will tell thee when he cometh. Listen, said he, as a confused clattering sounded in the courtyard without. Yonder are the horses now. They come presently. Busketh thee with thy letter, friend Myles. The attendants who passed through the enter-room now came and went more hurriedly, and Myles knew that the earl must be about to come forth. He had hardly time to untie his pouch, take out the letter, and tie the strings again when the aris at the doorway was thrust suddenly aside, and a tall, thin squire of about twenty came forth and said some words to the young men upon the bench, and then withdrew again. Instantly the squires arose and took their station beside the doorway. A sudden hush fell upon all in the room, and the men at arms stood in a line against the wall, stiff and erect as though all at once transformed to figures of iron. Once more the aris was drawn back, and in the hush Myles heard voices in the other room. My lord cometh, whispered Gascogne in his ear, and Myles felt his heart leap in answer. The next moment two noblemen came into the enter-room followed by a crowd of gentlemen, squires, and pages. One of the two was a dignitary of the church, the other. Myles instantly singled out as the earl of Mackworth. He was a tall man, taller even than Myles' father. He had a thin face, deep-set bushy eyebrows, and a hawk nose. His upper lip was clean-shaven, but from his chin a flowing beard of iron gray hung nearly to his waist. He was clad in a riding gown of black velvet that hung a little lower than the knee, trimmed with autofur and embroidered with silver goss hawks, the crest of the family of Beaumont. A light shirt of male showed beneath the gown as he walked, and a pair of soft undressed leather riding boots were laced as high as the knee, protecting his scarlet hose from mud and dirt. Over his shoulders he wore a collar of enamel gold from which hung a magnificent jewel pendant, and upon his fist he carried a beautiful Iceland falcon. As Myles stood staring, he suddenly heard Gascogne's voice whisper in his ear, Yon is my lord, go forward and give him thy letter. Scarcely knowing what he did, he walked towards the earl like a machine, his heart pounding within him and a great humming in his ears. As he drew near, the nobleman stopped for a moment and stared at him, and Myles, as in a dream, kneeled and presented the letter. The earl took it in his hand, turned it this way and that, looked first at the bear, then at the packet, then at the bear again. Who art thou, said he, and what is the matter that wouldst have of me? I am Myles Fallworth, said the lad in a low voice, and I come seeking service with you. The earl drew his thick eyebrows quickly together and shot a keen look at the lad. Fallworth, said he sharply, Fallworth, I know no Fallworth. The letter will tell you, said Myles, it is from one once dear to you. The earl took the letter, and handing it to a gentleman who stood near bade him break the seal. Thou mayest stand, said he to Myles. Need is not kneel there forever. Then, taking the open departement again, he glanced first at the face, then at the back, and, seeing its length, looked vexed. Then he read for an earnest moment or two, skipping from line to line. Presently he folded the letter and thrust it into the pouch at his side. So it is, your grace, said he to the lordly prelate, that we who have luck to rise in the world must ever suffer by being plagued at all times and seasons. Here is one I chanced to know a dozen years ago, who thinks he hath a claim upon me and saddles me with his son. I must then take the lad, too, for sake of peace and quietness. He glanced around, and seeing Gascon, who had drawn near, beckon to him. Take me this fellow, said he, to the buttery, and see him fed. And then to Sir James Lee, and have his name entered in the castle books. And stay, sir ah, he added. Bid me, Sir James, if it may be so done, to enter him as a squire at arms. He thinks he will be better serving so than in the household, for he appeared with a soothly rough cub for a page. Miles did look rustic enough, standing clad in freeze in the midst of that gay company, and a murmur of laughter sounded around, though he was too bewildered to fully understand that he was the cause of the merriment. Then some hand drew him back, and was Gascon's. There was a bustle of people passing, and the next minute they were gone, and Miles and Old Dixon Bowman and the young squire were left alone in the ante-room. Gascon looked very sour and put out. A rain upon it, said he. Here is good sport spoiled for me to see thee fed. I wish no ill to thee, friend, but I would thou hast come this afternoon or tomorrow. Me thinks I bring trouble and dull to everyone, said Miles somewhat bitterly. It would have been better had I never come to this place, me thinks. His words and tones softened Gascon a little. Nair mine, said the squire. It was not thy fault, and is past mending now. So come and fill thy stomach in heaven's name. Perhaps not the least hard part of the whole trying day for Miles was his parting with Dixon. Gascon and he had accompanied the old retainer to the Outer Gate, in the archway of which they now stood, for without a permit they could go no farther. The old Bowman led by the bridal rain the horse upon which Miles had ridden that morning. His own nag, a vicious brute, was restive to be gone, but Dixon held a man with tight reign. He reached down and took Miles a sturdy brown hand in his crooked knotted grasp. Farewell, young master, he crowed tremulously with a watery glimmer in his pale eyes. Thou wilt not forget me when I am gone? Nay, said Miles, I will not forget thee. I, I, said the old man, looking down at him, and shaking his head slowly from side to side. Thou art a great, tall, sturdy fellow now, yet I have held thee on my knee many and many's the time, and dandled thee when thou art only a little weeny babe. Be still, thou devil's limb! He suddenly broke off, raining back his restive, raw-bone steed, which began again to caper in prance. Miles was not sorry for the interruption. He felt awkward and abashed at the parting, and at the old man's reminiscences, knowing that Gascon's eyes were resting amusingly upon the scene, and that the minute arms were looking on. Certainly, old Dixon did look droll as he struggled vainly with his vicious high-necked nag. Nay, I'm a rain on thee, and thou wilt go, go! cried he at last, with a savage dig of his heels into the animal's ribs, and away they clattered, the lead horse kicking up its heels as a final parting, setting Gascon fairly a- laughing. At the bend of the road, the old man turned and nodded his head. The next moment he had disappeared around the angle of the wall, and it seemed to Miles, as he stood looking after him, as though the last thread that bound him to his own life had snapped and broken. As he turned he saw that Gascon was looking at him. Dost feel down-hearted, said the young squire curiously. Nay, said Miles brusquely, nevertheless his throat was tight and dry, and the word came huskily in spite of himself. The Earl of Mackworth, as was customary among the great lords in those days, maintained a small army of knights, gentlemen, men-at-arms, and retainers, who were expected to serve him upon all occasions of need, and from whom were supplied his quota of recruits to fill such levies as might be made upon him by the king in time of war. The knights and gentlemen of this little army of horse and foot soldiers were largely recruited from the company of squires and bachelors, as the young novitiate soldiers of the castle were called. This company of squires consisted of from eighty to ninety lads, ranging in age from eight to twenty years. Those under fourteen years were termed pages, and served chiefly the countess and her waiting gentle women, in whose company they acquired the graces and polish of the times, such as they were. After reaching the age of fourteen, the lads were entitled to the name of Esquire, or Squire. In most of the great houses of the time, the Esquires were the special attendants upon the lord and lady of the house, holding such positions as body squires, cup-bearers, carvers, and sometimes the office of Chamberlain. But Devlin, like some other of the princely castles of the greatest nobles, was more like a military post, or a fortress, than an ordinary household. Only comparatively few of the Esquires could be used in personal attendance upon the Earl. The others were trained more strictly in arms, and served rather in the capacity of a sort of bodyguard than as ordinary Squires, for as the Earl rose in power and influence, and as it so became well worthwhile for the lower nobility and gentry to enter their sons in his family, the body of Squires became almost cumbersomely large. Accordingly, that part which comprised the Squires proper, as separate from the younger pages, was divided into three classes. First, Squires of the body, who were those just past pagehood, and who waited upon the Earl in personal service. Second, Squires of the household, who, having regular hours assigned for exercise in the manual of arms, were relieved from personal service, accepting upon special occasions. And thirdly and lastly, at the head of the whole body of lads, a class called Bachelors, young men ranging from 18 to 20 years of age. This class was supposed to exercise a sort of government over the other and younger Squires, to keep them in order as much as possible, to marshal them upon occasions of importance, to see that their arms and equipments were kept in good order, to call the roll for chapel in the morning, and to see that those not upon duty in the house were present at the daily exercise at arms. Orders to the Squires were generally transmitted through the Bachelors, and the head of that body was expected to make weekly reports of affairs in their quarters to the chief captain of the body. From this overlordship of the Bachelors, there had gradually risen a system of fagging, such as is or was practiced in the great English public schools, enforced services exacted from the younger lads, which at the time miles came to Devlin had in the five or six years it had been in practice, grown to be an absolute, though unwritten law of the body, a law supported by all the prestige of long continued usage. At that time the Bachelors numbered but thirteen, yet they exercised over the rest of the sixty-four Squires and Pages a rule of iron, and were taskmasters hard, exacting, and oftentimes cruel. The whole company of Squires and Pages was under the supreme command of a certain one-eyed knight, by name Sir James Lee, a soldier seasoned by the fire of a dozen battles, bearing a score of wounds one in fight and turny, and withered by hardship and labor to a leather-like toughness. He had fought upon the king's side in all the late wars, and had at Shrewsbury received a wound that unfitted him for active service, so that now he was fallen to the post of captain of Squires at Devlin Castle, a man disappointed in life, and with a temper embittered by that failure, as well as by cankering pain. Yet perhaps no one could have been better fitted for the place he held than Sir James Lee. The lads under his charge were a rude, rough, unruly set, quick like their elders to quarrel and to quarrel fiercely, even to the drawing of a sword or dagger, but there was a cold iron sternness about the grim old man that quelled them, as the trainer with a lash of steel might quell a den of young wolves. The apartments in which he was lodged with his clerk were next in the dormitory of the lads, and even in the midst of the most excited brawlings the distant sound of his harsh voice, silence, messieurs, would bring an instant hush to the loudest uproar. It was in to his grim presence that Miles was introduced by Gascon. Sir James was in his office, a room bare of ornament or adornment or superfluous comfort of any sort, without even so much as a mat of rushes upon the cold stone pavement to make it less cheerless. The old one-eyed knight sat gnawing his bristling mustaches. To any one who knew him it would have been apparent that as the castle phrase went, the devil sat astride of his neck, which meant that some one of his blind wounds was aching more sorely than usual. His clerk sat beside him with account books and parchment spread upon the table, and the head squire, Walter Blunt, allad some three or four years older than Miles, and half a head taller, black-browed, powerfully built, and with cheek and chin darkened by the soft budding of his adolescent beard, stood making his report. Sir James listened in grim silence while Gascon told his errand. So then, party, I am bid to take another one of ye, am I? He snarled. As though ye cause me not troubly now, and this one a cub looking a very boar in carriage and breeding, may hap the earl thinketh I am to train boys to his dilly-dally household service as well as to use of arms. Sir, said Gascon timidly, my lord sayeth, he would have this one entered direct as a squire of the body, so that he need not serve in the household. Sayest so? cried sir James harshly. Then take thou my message back again to thy lord. Not for Macworth, no, nor a better man than he will I make any changes in my government, and I be set to rule a pack of boys. I will rule them as I list, and not according to any man's bidding, tell him, sirah, that I will enter no lad as squire of the body without first testing, and he be fit at arms to hold that place. He sat for a while, glowering at Miles, annoying his mustaches, and for the time no one dared to break the grim silence. What is thy name? said he, suddenly. And then almost before Miles could answer, he asked the head squire whether he could find a place to lodge him. There is Gillis Whitlock's cot empty, said Blunt. He is in the infirmary, and be like goeth home again when he cometh thence. The feverth hath gotten into his bones, that will do, said the night interrupting him impatiently. Let him take that place, or any other that thou hast, and thou, Jerome, said he to his clerk. Thou mayest enter him upon the roll, though whether it be as page or squire or bachelor shall be as I, please, and not as Mackworth bideth me. Now, get ye gone. Old Bruins' wound smarteth him sore, guess gone observed, as the two lads walked across the Armory Court. He had good-naturedly offered to show the newcomer the many sites of interest around the castle, and in the hour or so of ramble that followed. The two grew from acquaintances to friends, with a quickness that boyhood alone can bring about. They visited the Armory, the Chapel, the Stables, the Great Hall, the Painted Chamber, the Guardhouse, the Messroom, and even the Scullery and the Kitchen, with its great range of boilers and furnaces and ovens. Last of all, Myles' new friend introduced him to the Armour Smithy. My Lord hath sent a piece of Milan Armour thither to be repaired, said he. Be like thou, would like to see it? I said Myles eagerly. That would I. The Smith was a gruff, good-natured fellow, and showed the piece of Armour to Myles readily and willingly enough. It was a beautiful bassinet of inlaid workmanship, and was edged with a rim of gold. Myles scarcely dared touch it. He gazed at it with an unconcealed delight that warmed the Smith's honest heart. I have another piece of Milan here, said he. Did I ever show thee my dagger, Master Gascon? Nay, said the squire. The Smith unlocked a great oaken chest in the corner of the shop, lifted the lid, and brought thence a beautiful dagger with the handle of ebony and silver gilt, and a sheath of Spanish leather embossed in gilt. The keen, well-tempered blade was beautifully engraved and inlaid with nielow work, representing a group of figures in a then popular subject, the Dance of Death. It was a weapon at once unique and beautiful, and even Gascon showed an admiration scarcely less keen than Myles openly expressed delight. To whom doth it belong, said he, trying the point upon his thumbnail. There, said the Smith, is the jest of the whole, for it belongeth to me. Sir William Boeckler bade me order the weapon through Master Gilder's worthy of London-town, and by the time it came hither, hello, he had died, and so it fell to my hands. No one here payeth the price for the trinket, and so I must even keep it myself, though I be but a poor man. How much dost thou hold it for? said Gascon. Seventeen shillings buyeth it, said the armorer carelessly. Aye, aye, said Gascon with a sigh, so it is to be poor, and not be able to have such things as one loveth and would feign possess. Seventeen shillings is nigh as much by half again as all my yearly wage. Then a sudden thought came to Myles, and as it came his cheeks glowed as hot as fire. Master Gascon, said he, with gruff awkwardness, thou hast been a very good, true friend to me since I have come to this place, and hast befriended me in all ways thou mightst do, and I, as well I know, but a poor rustic clod. Now I have forty shillings by me, which I may spend as I list, and so I do beseech thee, that thou wilt take Yondagger of me as a love-gift, and have and hold it for thy very own. Gascon stared, open-mouthed at Myles. Dost mean it, said he, at last? I said, Myles, I do mean it. Master Smith, give him the blade. At first the Smith grinned, thinking it all a jest, but he soon saw that Myles was serious enough, and when the seventeen shillings were produced and counted down upon the anvil, he took off his cap, and made Myles a low bow as he swept them into his pouch. Now by my faith and troth, quote he, that I do call a true lordly gift. Is it not so, Master Gascon? I, said Gascon with a gulp, it is in suitly earnest, and thereupon to Myles great wonderment, he suddenly flung his arms about his neck, and, giving him a great hug, kissed him upon the cheek. Dear Myles, said he, I tell thee truly, and of a verity, I did feel warm towards thee from the very first time I saw thee sitting like a poor oaf upon the bench up yonder in the anti-room, and now of a sooth I give thee assurance that I do love thee as my own brother. Yea, I will take the dagger, and I will stand by thee as a true friend from this time forth. May hath thou mayst need a true friend in this place, ere thou lifts long with us, for some of us esquires be soothly rough, and knocks are more plenty here than broad pennies, so that one new come is like to have a hard time gaining a footing. I thank thee, said Myles, for thy offer of love and friendship, and do tell thee upon my part that I also of all the world would like best to have thee for my friend. Such was the manner in which Myles formed the first great friendship of his life, a friendship that was destined to last him through many years to come, as the two walked back across the great quadrangle, upon which fronted the main buildings of the castle. Their arms were wound across one another's shoulders, after the manner, as a certain great writer says, of boys and lovers. A Boy's Life is of a Very Flexible Sort. It takes but a little while for it to shape itself to any new surroundings in which it may be thrown, to make itself new friends, to settle itself to new habits, and so it was that Myles fell directly into the ways of the lads of Devlin. On his first morning, as he washed his face in hands with the other squires and pages, in a great tank of water in the armory courtyard, he presently found himself splashing and dashing with the others, laughing and shouting as loud as any, and calling some by their Christian names, as though he had known them for years, instead of overnight. During chapel, he watched with sympathetic delight the covert pranks of the youngsters during the half-hour that Father Emmanuel droned his Latin, and with his dagger-point he carved his own name among the mini-cut into the back of a bench before him. When, after breakfast, the squires poured like schoolboys into the great armory to answer to the roll call for daily exercise, he came storming in with the rest, beating the lad in front of him with his cap. Boys are very keen to feel the influence of a forceful character. A lad with a strong will is quick to reach his proper level as a greater or lesser leader among the others, and Myles was of just the masterful nature to make his individuality felt among the Devlin squires. He was quick enough to yield obedience upon all occasions to proper authority, but would never bend an inch to the usurpation of tyranny. In the school at St. Mary's Priory at Crosby Dale, he would submit without a murmur or offer of resistance to Chastisement by old Father Ambrose, the regular teacher, but once, when the fat old monk was sick and a great long-legged strapping young friar who had temporarily taken his place, undertook to administer punishment, Myles with a wrestling trip flung him sprawling backward over a bench into the midst of a shoal of small boys amid a hubbub of riotous confusion. He had been flogged soundly for it under the supervision of prior Edward himself, but so soon as his punishment was over, he assured the prior very seriously that should, like occasion, again happen, he would act in the same manner, flogging or no flogging. It was this bold, outspoken spirit that gained him at once friends and enemies at Devlin, and though it first showed itself in what was but a little matter, nevertheless, it set a mark upon him that singled him out from the rest, and although he did not suspect it at the time, called to him the attention of Sir James Lee himself, who regarded him as a lot of free and frank spirit. The first morning after the roll call in the armory, as Walter Blunt, the head bachelor, rolled up the slip of parchment, and the temporary silence burst forth into redoubled noise and confusion, each lad arming himself from a row of racks that stood along the wall, he beckoned miles to him. My Lord himself has spoken to Sir James Lee concerning thee, said he. Sir James maintained that he will not enter thee into the body, till thou hast first practised for a while at the pels, and shown what thou canst do at broadsword. Hast ever fought at the pels? I answered miles, and that every day of my life, since I became Esquire four years ago, saving only Sundays and Holy Days. With shield and broadsword? Sometimes, said Myles, and sometimes with the shortsword. Sir James would have thee come to the tilt-yard this morning. He himself will take thee in hand to try what thou canst do. Thou mayst take the arms upon yonder rack, and use them until otherwise bitten. Thou seest of thou seeest that the number painted above it on the wall is seventeen. That will be thy number for the nonce. So Myles armed himself from his rack, as the others were doing from theirs. The armor was rude and heavy, used to accustom the body to the weight of the iron plates, rather than for any defence. It consisted of a cures, or breastplate of iron, opening at the side with hinges, and catching with hooks and eyes, a poly-airs or shoulder plates, arm plates and leg pieces, and a bassinet or open-faced helmet, a great triangular shield covered with leather and studded with bosses of iron, and a heavy broadsword pointed and doled at the edges completed the equipment. The practice at the pails, which Myles was bitten to attend, comprised the chief exercise of the day with the esquires of young cadet soldiers of that time. And in it they learned not only all the strokes, cuts and thrusts of sword play, then in vogue, but also toughness, endurance, and elastic quickness. The pails themselves consisted of upright posts of ash or oak, about five feet six inches in height, and in girth somewhat thicker than a man's thigh. They were firmly planted in the ground, and upon them the strokes of the broadsword were directed. At Devlin, the pails stood just back of the open and covered tilting courts and the archery ranges, and thither those lads not upon household duty were marched every morning accepting Fridays and Sundays, and were there exercised under the direction of Sir James Lee in two assistants. The whole company was divided into two, sometimes into three parties, each of which took its turn at the exercise, delivering at the word of command the various strokes, feints, attacks, and retreats as the instructors ordered. After five minutes of this mock battle the perspiration began to pour down the faces, and the breath to come thick and short, but it was not until the lads could absolutely endure no more that the order was given to rest, and they were allowed to fling themselves panting upon the ground, while another company took its place at the triple row of posts. As Miles struck and hacked at the pail assigned to him, Sir James Lee stood beside him, watching him in grim silence. The lad did his best to show the night all that he knew of uppercut, undercut, thrust, and backhand stroke, but it did not seem to him that Sir James was very well satisfied with his skill. Thou fightest like a clawed pole, said the old man. Ha! That stroke was but ill-recovered. Strike me it again, and get thou in guard more quickly. Miles repeated the stroke. PEST! cried Sir James. Thou art too slow by a week. Here! Strike thou the blow at me. Miles hesitated. Sir James held a stout staff in his hand, but otherwise he was unarmed. Strike, I say, said Sir James, while stayest thou for, art afeard. It was Miles' answer that set the seal of individuality upon him. Nay! said he boldly. I am not afeard. I fear not thee nor any man. So saying, he delivered the stroke at Sir James with might in main. It was met with a drawing blow that made his wrist an armed tingle, and the next instant he received a stroke upon the bassinet that caused his ears to ring and the sparks to dance and fly before his eyes. Party! said Sir James grimly. And I had had a mace in my hand. I would have knocked thy cockerel brains out that time. Thou mayest take that blow for answering me so pertly. And now we are quits. Now strike me the stroke again, and thou art not afeard. Miles' eyes watered in spite of himself, and he shut the lids tight to wink the dimness away. Nevertheless, he spoke up undauntedly as before. I, merry will I strike it again, said he. And this time he was able to recover guard quickly enough to turn Sir James' blow with his shield, instead of receiving it upon his head. So, said Sir James, now mind thee of this, that when thou strike us that lower cut at the legs, recover thyself more quickly. Now then, strike me it at the pell. Gascoigne and other of the lads who were just in line stretched out upon the grass beneath a tree at the edge of the open court were stood the pells, were interested spectators of the whole scene. Not one of them in their memory had heard Sir James so answered face to face as Miles had answered him. And, after all, perhaps lad himself would not have done so had he been longer a resident in the squire's quarters at Devlin. By our lady, thou art a cool blade, Miles, said Gascoigne, as they marched back to the armory again. Never heard I one to speak, Sir James, as thou hast done this day. And, after all, said another of the young squires. Old Bruin was not so ill pleased me thinks. That was a shrewd blow he fetched thee on the crown, Falworth. Mary! I would not have had it on my own skull for a silver penny. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Of Men of Iron This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Susan Umpelby Men of Iron by Howard Pyle Chapter 7 So little does it take to make a body's reputation. That night all the squires' quarters buzzed with the story of how the new boy, Falworth, had answered Sir James Lee to his face without fear, and had exchanged blows with him hand to hand. Walter Blunt himself was moved to some show of interest. What said he to thee, Falworth? asked he. He said not, said Miles Bruskley. He only sought to show me how to recover from the undercut. It is passing strange that he should take so much notice of thee as to exchange blows with thee with his own hand. Happily thou art either very quick or parless slow at arms. It is quick that he is, said Gascoigne, speaking up in his friend's behalf. For the second time that Falworth delivered the stroke, Sir James could not reach him to return. So I saw with mine own eyes. But that very sterling independence that had brought Miles so creditably through this adventure was certain to embroil him with the rude half-savage lads around him, some of whom, especially among the bachelors, were his superiors as well in age, as in skill and training. As said before, the bachelors had enforced from the younger boys a fagging sort of attendance on their various personal needs. And it was upon this point that Miles first came to grief. As it chanced, several days passed before any demand was made upon him for service to the heads of the squirehood. But when that demand was made, the bachelors were very quick to see that the boy who was bold enough to speak up to Sir James Lee was not likely to be a willing fag for them. I tell thee, Francis, he said, as Gascoigne and he talked over the matter one day. I tell thee I will never serve them, prithee. What shame can be fouler than to do such menial service save for one's rightful Lord. Merry Quoth Gascoigne. I reason not of shame at this or that. All I know is that others serve them who are happily as good and may be better than I be. And that if I do not serve them, I get knocked in the head, therefore, which same goeth soothly against my stomach. I judge not for thee, said Miles. Thou art used to these castle ways. But only I know that I will not serve them, though they be thirty against me instead of thirteen. Then thou art a fool, said Gascoigne, dryly. Now, in this matter of service, there was one thing above all others that stirred Miles Foulworth's ill-liking. The winter before he had come to Devlin, Walter Blunt, who was something of a sibirite in his way, and who had a repugnance to bathing in the General Tank and the Open Armory Court in Frosty Weather, had had Dick Carpenter build a trough in the corner of their dormitory for the use of the bachelors, and every morning it was a duty of two of the younger squires to bring three pails of water to fill this private tank for the use of the head Esquires. It was seeing two of his fellow Esquires fetching and carrying this water that Miles disliked so heartily, and every morning his vial was stirred anew at the site. Sooner would I dive and yield to such vial service, said he. He did not know how soon his protestations would be put to the test. One night it was a week or two after Miles had come to Devlin. Blunt was called to attend the earl at livery. The livery was the last meal of the day and was served with great pomp and ceremony about nine o'clock at night to the head of the house as he lay in bed. Curfew had not yet rung, and the lads in the squires quarters were still wrestling and sparring and romping boisterously in and out around the long row of rude cots in the great dormitory as they made ready for the night. Six or eight flurring links in wrought iron brackets that stood out from the wall through a great ready glare through the barrack-like room, a light of all others to romp by. Miles and Gascoigne were engaged in defending the passageway between their two cots against the attack of three other lads, and Miles held his sheepskin coverlet rolled up into a ball and balanced in his hand, ready for launching at the head of one of the others so soon as it should rise from behind the shelter of a cot. Just then, Walter Blunt, dressed with more than usual care, passed by on his way to the earl's house. He stopped for a moment and said, Mayhaps I will not be in until late tonight. Thou and Falworth Gascoigne may fetch water tomorrow. Then he was gone. Miles stood staring after his retreating figure with eyes open and mouth agape, still holding the ball of sheepskin balanced in his hand. Gascoigne burst into a helpless laugh at his blank stupefified face, but the next moment he laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. Miles, he said, Thou wilt not make trouble, wilt thou? Miles made no answer. He flung down his sheepskin and sat him gloomily down upon the side of the cot. I said that I would sooner die than fresh water for them, said he. Ah, ah, said Gascoigne, but that was spoken in haste. Miles said nothing, but shook his head. But, after all, circumstances shaped themselves. The next morning, when he rose up through the dark waters of sleep, it was to feel someone shaking him violently by the shoulder. Come, cried Gascoigne, as Miles opened his eyes. Come! Time passeth, and we are late. Miles, bewildered with his sudden awakening and still fuddled with the fumes of sleep, huddled into his doublet and hose, hardly knowing what he was doing, tying a point here and a point there, and slipping his feet into his shoes. Then he hurried after Gascoigne, frowsy, half dressed, and even yet only half awake. It was not until he was fairly out into the fresh air and saw Gascoigne filling the three leathered buckets at the tank, that he fully awakened to the fact that he was actually doing that hateful service for the Bachelors, which he had protested he would sooner die than render. The sun was just rising, gilding the crown of the Donjon Keep with a flame of ruddy light. Below, among the lesser buildings, the day was still gray and misty. Only an occasional noise broke the silence of the early morning, a cough from one of the rooms, the rattle of a pot or a pan, stirred by some sleepy scullion, the clapping of a door or a shutter, and now and then the crowing of a cock, back of the long row of stables, all sounding loud and startling in the fresh dewy stillness. "'Thou has betrayed me,' said Miles harshly, breaking the silence at last. I knew not what I was doing, or else I would never have come hither. Nevertheless, even though I become, I will not carry the water for them. "'So be it,' said Gascoigne Tartley, and thou canst not stomach it, let be, and I will ye and carry all three myself. It will make me two journeys, but, thank heaven, I am not so proud as to wish to get me hard knocks for not. So saying, he picked up two of the buckets and started away across the court for the dormitory. Then Miles with a lowering face snatched up the third, and, hurrying after, gave him his hand with the extra pail. So it was that he came to do service after all. "'Why, Terry, ye so long,' said one of the older bachelors roughly, as the two lads emptied the water into the wooden trough. He sat on the edge of the cot, bloused and untrust, with his long hair tumbled and disordered. His dictatorial tone stung Miles to fury. "'We, Terry, no longer than need be,' answered he, savagely. Have we wings to fly withle at your bidding?' He spoke so loudly that all in the room heard him. The younger squires who were dressing stared in blank amazement, and Blunt sat up suddenly in his cot. "'Why, how now,' he cried. "'Answer us thou back thy better so pertly, sir, by my soul. I have a mind to crack thy head with this clog for thy unruly talk.' He glared at Miles as he spoke, and Miles glared back again with right good will. Matters might have come to a crisis, only that Gascoigne and Wilkes dragged their friend away before he had an opportunity to answer. "'An ill-conditioned nave as ever I did see,' growled Blunt, glaring after him. "'Miles, miles,' said Gascoigne almost despairingly. "'Why wilt thou breed such mischief for thyself? See, as thou not, thou hast got thee the ill-will of every one of the bachelors, from what, Blunt, to Robin de Ramsey?' "'I care not,' said Miles fiercely, recurring to his grievance. "'Hurgy not how the dogs up-braided me before the whole room? That Blunt called me an ill-conditioned nave.' "'Merry,' said Gascoigne, laughing, and so thou art. Thus it is that boldness may breed one enemies as well as gain one friends. My own notion is that one's enemies are more quick to act than one's friends.' End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Men of Iron This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Susan Unpleby Men of Iron by Howard Pyle Chapter 8 Everyone knows the disagreeable lurking discomfort that follows a quarrel. A discomfort that embitters the very taste of life for the time being. Such was the dull distaste that Miles felt that morning after what had passed in the dormitory. Everyone in the proximity of such an open quarrel feels a reflected constraint, and in Miles' mind was a disagreeable doubt whether the constraint meant disapproval of him or of his late enemies. It seemed to him that Gascoigne added the last bitter twang to his unpleasant feelings when, half an hour later, they marched with the others to chapel. Why dost thou breed such trouble for thyself, Miles? said he, recurring to what he had already said. Is it not foolish for thee to come hither to this place and then not submit to the ways thereof as the rest of us do? Thou talkest not like a true friend to chide me thus, said Miles sullenly, and he withdrew his arm from his friends. Mary, come up, said Gascoigne. And I were not thy friend. I would let thee jog thine own way. It aches not my bones to have thine drubbed. Just then they entered the chapel, and words that might have led to a quarrel were brought to a close. Miles was not slow to see that he had the ill will of the head of their company. That morning in the armory, he had occasion to ask some question of Blunt. The head-squire stared coldly at him for a moment, gave him a short, gruff answer, and then, turning his back abruptly, began talking with one of the other bachelors. Miles flushed hot at the other's insulting manner, and looked quickly around to see if any of the others had observed what had passed. It was a comfort to him to see that all were too busy arming themselves to think of anything else. Nevertheless, his face was very lowering as he turned away. Some day I will show him that I am as good a man as he, he muttered to himself, an evil-hearted dog to put shame upon me. The storm was brewing and ready to break. That day was exceptionally hot and close, and permission had been asked by, and granted to, those squires not on duty, to go down to the river for a bath after exercise at the Pells. But as Miles replaced his arms on the rack, a little page came with a bidding to come to Sir James in his office. Look now, said Miles. Here is just my ill fortune. Why might he not have waited an hour longer, rather than cause me to miss going with you? Naig, said guest going. Let not that grieve thee, Miles. Wilkes and I will wait for thee in the dormitory. Will we not, Edmund? Make thou hast and go to Sir James. Sir James was sitting at the table studying over a scroll of parchment when Miles entered his office instead before him at the table. Well, boy, said he, laying aside the parchment and looking up at the lad. I have tried thee fairly for these few days, and may say that I have found thee worthy to be entered upon the roles as Esquire of the body. I give thee thanks, sir, said Miles. The night nodded his head in acknowledgement, but did not at once give the word of dismissal that Miles had expected. Doesn't mean to write thee a letter home soon, said he, suddenly. I, said Miles, gaping in great wonderment at the strangeness of the question, then when thou dost so right, said Sir James, give thou my deep regards to thy father. Then he continued after a brief pause. Him did I know well in times gone by, and we were right true friends in hearty love, and for his sake I would be friendly, that is, in so much as his fitting. Sir, said Miles, but Sir James held up his hand and he stopped short in his thanks. But, boy, said he, that which I sent for thee for to tell thee was of more import than these. Dost thou know that thy father is an attainted outlaw? Nay! cried Miles, his cheeks blazing up red as fire. Who saith that of him lyeth in his teeth? Thou dost mistake me, said Sir James, quietly. It is sometimes no shame to be outlawed and banned. Had it been so, I would not have told thee thereof, nor have bidden thee send my true love to thy father as I did but now. But, boy, sir tease he standest continually in great danger, greater than thou waddest of. Were it known where he lieth hid, it might be to his undoing an utter ruin. Methought, that be like thou might us not know that. And so I sent for thee for to tell thee that it behooveth thee not to say one single word concerning him to any of these new friends of thine, nor who he is, nor what he is. But, how came my father to be so banned, said Miles, in a constrained and husky voice, and after a long time of silence? That I may not tell thee just now, said the old knight. Only this, that I have been bidden to make it known to thee that thy father hath an enemy full as powerful as my lord the earl himself, and that through that enemy all his ill fortune, his blindness, and everything hath come. Moreover, did this enemy know where thy father lieth he would slay him right speedily. Sir! cried Miles, violently smiting his open hand upon the table. Tell me who this man is, and I will kill him. Sir Miles smiled grimly. Thou talkest like a boy, said he. Wait until thou art grown to be a man. May have then thou mayest repent thee of these bold words. For one time this enemy of thy fathers was reckoned the foremost knight in England, and he is now the king's dear friend and a great lord. But, said Miles, after another long time of heavy silence, will not my lord then befriend me for the sake of my father, who is one time his dear comrade? Sir James shook his head. It may not be, said he. Neither thou, nor thy father, must look for open favor from the earl. And he befriended Falworth, and it came to be known that he had given him aid or sucker. It might be like be to his own undoing. No, boy. Thou must not even look to be taken into the household to serve with gentlemen as the other squires do serve. But must even live thine own life here and fight thine own way. Miles eyes blazed. Then cried he fiercely. It is shame and a taint upon my lord the earl, and cowardice as well. And never will I ask favor of him who is so untrue a friend as to turn his back upon a comrade in trouble as he turneth his back upon my father. How art a foolish boy, said Sir James, with a bitter smile. And know us not of the world. And thou wouldest look for man to be friend man to his own danger. Thou must look elsewhere than on this earth. Was I not one time Mackworth's dear friend as well as thy father? It could cost him not to honor me, and here I am, fallen to be a teacher of boys. Go to! Thou art a fool. Then after a little pause of brooding silence he went on to say that the earl was no better or worse than the rest of the world, that men of his position had many jealous enemies ever seeking their ruin, and that such must look first of all each to himself or else be certainly ruined, and drag down others in that ruin. Miles was silenced. But the bitterness had entered his heart and abided with him for many a day afterwards. Perhaps Sir James read his feelings in his frank face, for he sat looking curiously at him. Twirling his grizzled mustache the while. Thou art like to have hard knocks of it, lad, ere thou hast gotten thee safe through the world, said he, with more kindness in his harsh voice than was usual. But get thee not into fights before thy time. Then he charged the boy very seriously to live at peace with his fellow squires, and for his father's sake, as well as his own, to enter into none of the broils that were so frequent in their quarters. It was with this special admonition against Brawling that Miles was dismissed to enter, before five minutes had passed, into the first really great fight of his life. Besides Gascoigne and Wilkes, he found gathered in the dormitory six or eight of the company of squires who were to serve that day upon household duty, among others, Walter Blunt, and three other bachelors, who were changing their course service clothes for others more fit for the household. Why did St. Terry so long, Miles, say Gascoigne, as he entered? Me thought thou were never coming. Where goest thou, Falworth, called Blunt, from the other end of the room, where he was lacing his doublet? Just now, Miles had no heart in the swimming or sport of any sort, but he answered shortly, I go to the river to swim. Nay, said Blunt, thou goest not forth from the castle to-day, hast thou forgot how thou didst answer me back about fetching the water this morning? This day thou must do penance, so go thou straight to the armory and scour thou up, my breast-plate. From the time he had arisen that morning everything had gone wrong with Miles. He had felt himself already outrated in rendering service to the bachelors. He had quarreled with the head of the Esquires. He had nearly quarreled with Gascoigne, and then had come the bitterest and worst of all, the knowledge that his father was an outlaw, and that the earl would not stretch out a hand to aid him, or to give him any countenance. Blunt's words brought the last bitter cut to his heart, and they stung him to fury. For a while he could not answer, but stood glaring with a face fairly convulsed with passion at the young man, who continued his toilet, unconscious of the wrath of the new recruit. Gascoigne and Wilkes, accepting Miles' punishment as a thing of course, were about to leave the dormitory when Miles checked them. Stop, Francis, he cried hoarsely. Thinkest thou that I will stay behind to do young dog's dirty work? No, I go with ye. A moment or two of dumb, silent amazement followed his bold words. Then Blunt cried, Are thou mad? Nay, answered Miles in the same hoarse voice. I am not mad. I tell thee, a better man than thou shouldst not stay me from going, and I list to go. I will break thy cockerel head for that speech, said Blunt furiously. He stooped as he spoke, and picked up a heavy clog that lay at his feet. It was no insignificant weapon, either. The shoes of those days were sometimes made of cloth, and had long pointed toes stuffed with toe or wool. In muddy weather, thick, heavy clogs or wooden soles were strapped like a skate to the bottom of the foot. That clog, which Blunt had seized, was perhaps eighteen or twenty inches long, two or two-and-a-half inches thick at the heel, tapering to a point at the toe. As the older lad advanced, Gascoigne stepped between him and his victim. Do not harm him, Blunt, he pleaded. Bear thou in mind how new come he is among us. He kneweth not our ways as yet. Stand thou back, Gascoigne, said Blunt harshly, as he thrust him aside. I will teach him our ways, so that he will not soon forget them. Close to Miles' feet was another clog, like that one which Blunt held. He snatched it up and set his back against the wall, with a white face and a heart beating heavily and tumultously, but with courage steeled to meet the coming encounter. There was a hard, grim look in his blue eyes that, for a moment perhaps, quelled the elder lad. He hesitated. Tom! What! Ned! he called to the other bachelors. Come hither, and lend me a hand with this knave. And ye come nigh me, panted Miles, I will brain the first within reach. Then Gascoigne dodged behind the others and, without being seen, slipped out of the room for help. The battle that followed was quick, sharp, and short. As Blunt strode forward, Miles struck, and struck with might and main, but he was too excited to deliver his blow with calculation. Blunt parried it with the clog he held, and, the next instant, dropping his weapon, gripped Miles tight about the body, penning his arms to his sides. Miles also dropped the clog he held, and, wrenching out his right arm with a sudden heave, struck Blunt full in the face, and then, with another blow, sent him staggering back. It all passed in an instant. The next, the three other bachelors were upon him, catching him by the body, the arms, the legs. For a moment or two they swayed and stumbled hither and thither, and then, down they fell in a struggling heap. Miles fought like a wildcat, kicking, struggling, scratching, striking with elbows and fists. He caught one of the three by his collar, and tore his jacket open from the neck to the waist. He drove his foot into the pit of the stomach of another, and knocked him breathless. The other lads, not in the fight, stood upon the benches and the beds around, but such was the awe inspired by the prestige of the bachelors that not one of them dared to lend hand to help him. And so Miles fought his fierce battle alone. But four to one were odds too great, and though Miles struggled as fiercely as ever, by and by it was with less and less resistance. Blunt had picked up the clog he had dropped when he first attacked the lad, and now stood over the struggling heap white with rage. The blood running from his lip cut and puffed where Miles had struck him, and murder looking out from his face, if ever it looked out of the face of any mortal being. Hold him a little, said he fiercely, and I will still him for you. Even yet it was no easy matter for the others to do his bidding, but presently he got his chance and struck a heavy, cruel blow at Miles' head. Miles only partly warded it with his arm. Hitherto he had fought in silence. Now he gave a harsh cry. Holy Saints! cried Edmund Wilks. They will kill him! Blunt struck two more blows, both of them upon the body, and then at last they had the poor boy down, with his face upon the ground and his arms pinned to his sides, and Blunt, bracing himself for the stroke, with a grin of rage, raised a heavy clog for one terrible blow that should finish the fight. CHAPTER IX How now, messieurs? said a harsh voice that fell upon the turmoil like a thunder clap, and there stood Sir James Lee. Instantly the struggle ceased, and the combatants scrambled to their feet. The older lads stood silent before their chief, but Miles was deaf and blind and mad with passion. He knew not where he stood or what he said or did. White as death he stood for a while, glaring about him, catching his breath convulsively. Then he screamed hoarsely. Who struck me? Who struck me when I was down? I will have his blood that struck me. He caught sight of Blunt. It was he that struck me, he cried. Thou foul traitor, thou coward, and thereupon leaped at his enemy like a wildcat. Stop! cried Sir James Lee, clutching him by the arm. Miles was too blinded by his fury to see who it was that held him. I will not stop! he cried, struggling and striking at the night. Let me go! I will have his life that struck me when I was down. The next moment he found himself pinned close against the wall, and then as though his sight came back, he saw the grim face of the old one-eyed knight looking into his. Dost thou know who I am? said a stern, harsh voice. Instantly Miles ceased struggling, and his arms fell at his side. I, he said in a gasping voice, I know thee, he swallowed spasmodically for a moment or two, and then in the sudden revulsion of feeling burst out sobbing convulsively. Sir James marched the two off to his office, he himself walking between them holding an arm of each, the other lads following behind, awestruck and silent. Entering the office, Sir James shot the door behind him, leaving the group of squires clustered outside about the stone steps, speculating in whispers as to what would be the outcome of the matter. After Sir James had seated himself, the two standing facing him, he regarded them for a while in silence. How now, Walter Blunt, said he at last, what is to do? Why this, said Blunt, wiping his bleeding lip, that fellow Miles Fallworth hath been breeding mutiny and revolt ever since he came hither among us, and because he was thus mutinous I would punish him therefore. In that thou liest, burst out Miles, never have I been mutinous in my life. The silence, sir, said Sir James sternly. I will hear the anon. Nay, said Miles, with his lips twitching and writhing, I will not be silent, I am friendless here, and ye are all against me, but I will not be silent, and brook to have lies spoken of me. Even Blunt stood aghast at Miles' boldness, never had he heard anyone so speak to Sir James before. He did not dare for the moment even to look up, second after second of dead still in this past, while Sir James sat looking at Miles with a stern, terrifying calmness that chilled him in spite of the heat of his passion. Sir, said the old man at last, in a hard, quiet voice, thou dost know not of rules and laws of such a place as this. Nevertheless it is time for thee to learn them. So I will tell thee now that if thou openest thy lips to say only one single word more, except at my bidding, I will send thee to the black vault of the Don John to cool thy hot spirits on bread and water for a week. There was something in the measured quietness of the old night's tone that quelled Miles utterly and entirely. A little space of silence followed. Now then, Blunt, said Sir James, turning to the bachelor, tell me all the ins and outs of this business without any more under-dealing. This time Blunt's story, though naturally prejudiced in his own favor, was fairly true. Then Miles told his side of the case, the old night, listening attentively. Why, how now, Blunt, said Sir James, when Miles had ended, I myself gave the lads leave to go to the river to bathe. Wherefore shouldst thou forbid one of them? I did it but to punish this fellow for his mutiny, said the bachelor. Me thought we at their head were to have oversight concerning them. So ye are, said the night, but only to a degree. ere ye take it upon ye to gainsay any of my orders or permits. Come ye first to me. Dost thou understand? I answered Blunt sullenly. So be it. And now get thee gone, said the night. And let me hear no more of beating out brains with wooden clogs. And ye fight your battles. Let there not be murder in them. This is twice that the like hath hapt. Gee, and I hear more of such doings. He did utter this threat, but stopped short and fixed his one eye sternly upon the head-squire. Now shake hands, and be ye friends, said he abruptly. Blunt made a motion to obey, but Miles put his hand behind him. Nay, I shake not hands with any one who struck me while I was down. So be it, said the night, grimly. Now, though mayest go, Blunt, thou fall worth stay. I would be speak thee further. Tell me, said he when the elder lad had left them. Why wilt thou not serve these bachelors as the other squires do? Such is the custom here. Why wilt thou not obey it? Because, said Miles, I cannot stomach it. And they shall not make me serve them. And thou bid me do it, sir. I will do it, but not at their command. Nay, said the night, I do not bid thee do them service. That lieth with thee to render or not as thou seest fit. But how canst thou hope to fight single-handed against the commands of a dozen lads all older and mightier than thou? I know not, said Miles. But were they a hundred? Instead of thirteen they should not make me serve them. Thou art a fool, said the old night, smiling faintly. For that beest not courage, but folly. When one seteth about writing a wrong, one driveth not full head against it. For in so doing one geteth not but hard knocks. Nay, go deftly about it. And then, when the time is ripe, strike the blow. Now our beloved King Henry, when he was the Earl of Derby, what could he have gained had he stood so against the old King Richard, brooking the King face to face? I tell thee, he would have been knocked on the head as thou wert like to have been this day. Now were I thee, and had to fight a fight against odds. I would first get me friends behind me. And then he stopped short. But Miles understood him well enough. Sir, said he, with a gulp, I do thank thee for thy friendship, and ask thy pardon for doing as I did anon. I grant thee pardon, said the night. But tell thee plainly, and thou dost face me so again. I will truly send thee to the black cell for a week. Now get thee away. All the other lads were gone when Miles came forth, save only the faithful Gascon, who sacrificed his bath that day to stay with his friend. And perhaps that little act of self-denial moved Miles more than many a great thing might have done. It was right kind of thee, Francis, said he, laying his hand affectionately on his friend's shoulder. I know not why thou lovest me so. Why, for one thing this matter, answered his friend. Because me thinks thou art the best fighter and the bravest one of all of us squires. Miles laughed. Nevertheless, Gascon's words were a soothing bomb for much that had happened that day. I will fight me no more just now, said he. And then he told his friend all that Sir James had advised about biding his time. Gascon blew a long whistle. Be shroomy, quote he. But me thinks old Bruin is on thy side of the coral, Miles. And that be so. I am with thee also, and others that I can name as well. So be it, said Miles. Then I am content to abide the time when we may become strong enough to stand against them. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of Men of Iron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jonathan Feldman. Men of Iron by Howard Pyle. Chapter 10. Perhaps there is nothing more delightful in the romance of boyhood than the finding of some secret hiding place wither a body make creep away from the bustle of the world's life to nestle in the quietness for an hour or two. More especially is such delightful if it happened that by peeping from out of it, one may look down upon the bustling matters of busy everyday life while one lies snugly hidden away, unseen by any, as though one were in some strange invisible world of one's own. Such a hiding place, as would have filled the heart of almost any boy with sweet delight, Miles and Gastcoin found one summer afternoon. They call it their airy, and the name suited well for the roosting place of the young hawks that rested in its windy stillness, looking down upon the shifting castle life in the courts below. Behind the north stable, a great long rambling building, thick walled and black with age, lay an older part of the castle than that peopled by the better class of life, a cluster of great thick walls, rudely but strongly built, now the dwelling place of stable lads and hinds, swine and poultry. From one part of these ancient walls and fronting in inner court of the castle arose a tall circular heavy buttressed tower, considerably higher than the other buildings, and so mantled with a dense growth of aged ivy, as to stand a shaft of solid green. Above its crumbling crown circled hundreds of pigeons, white and pied, clapping and clattering a noisy flight through the sunny air. Several windows, some closed with shutters, peeped here and there from out of the leaves, and near the top of the pile was a row of arched openings as though of a balcony or an airy gallery. Miles had more than once felt an idle curiosity about this tower, and one day, as he and Gastcoin sat together, he pointed at his finger and said, What is Yon Place? That, answered Gastcoin, looking over his shoulder, that they call Brutus Tower, for why they do say that Brutus he built it when he came hither to Britain. I believe not the tale of my own self, nevertheless it is marvellous ancient, and old Robin the Fletcher telleth me that there be stairways built in the wall and passageways, and a maze wherein a body may get lost, and he know not the way aright, and never see the blessed light of day again. Mary, said Miles, those be strange sayings. Who liveeth there now? No one liveeth there, said Gastcoin, saving only some of the stable villains, and that half-witted goose-herd who flung stones at us yesterday when we mocked him down in the paddock. He and his wife and those others dwell in the vaults beneath, like rabbits in any warren. No one else hath lived there since old Robert's day, which be like was a hundred years ago. The story goes that old Robert's brother, or step-brother, was murdered there, and some men say by the Earl himself, sitting that day it hath been tight shut. Miles stared at the tower for a while in silence. It is a strange-seeming place from without, said he, at last, and may have it may be even more strange inside. Has thou ever been within, Francis? Nay, said Gastcoin. Said I not hath it been fast-locked since old Robert's day. By her lady, said Miles, and I hath lived here in this place so long as thou, I what I would have been within it ear this. A shroomy, said Gastcoin, but I hath never thought of such a matter. He turned and looked at the tall crown rising into the warm sunlight with a new interest, for the thought of entering it smacked pleasantly of adventure. How would thou set about getting within, said he, presently? Why look, said Miles. Sears thou not yon hole in the ivy branches? Me thinks there is a window at that place. And I mistake not, it is in reach of the stable leaves. A body might come up by the faggot pile to the roof of the henhouse, and then by the long stable to the north stable, and so to that hole. Gastcoin looked thoughtfully at the brutus tower, then suddenly inquired. Wouldst go there? I, said Miles briefly. So be it. Lead thou the way in the venture. I will follow after thee, said Gastcoin. As Miles had said, the climbing from roof to roof was a matter easy enough to an active pair of lads like themselves, but when, by and by, they reached the wall of the tower itself, they found the hidden window much higher from the roof than they had judged from below, perhaps 10 or 12 feet. And it was, besides, beyond the eaves and out of their reach. Miles looked up and looked down. Above was the bushy thickness of the ivy, the branches as thick as a woman's wrist, knotted and intertwined. Below was the stone pavement of a narrow inner court between two of the stable buildings. Me thinks I can climb to your place, said he. Thou'd break thy neck, and thou'd tryest, said Gastcoin hastily. Nay, quoth Miles, I trust not, but break or make, we get not there without trying. So he goeth for the adventure. Thou art a hare-brained nave as ever drew breath of life, quoth Gastcoin, and will cause me to come to grief some of these fine days. Nevertheless, and thou be jackful and lead the way, go, and I will be tomfool and follow a none. If thy neck is worth so little, mine is worth no more. It was indeed a perilous climb, but that special providence which guards reckless lads befriended them, as it has thousands of their kind before and since. So, by climbing from one knotted clinging stemming to another, they were presently seated snugly in the ivy deniche in the window. It was barred from within by a crumbling shutter, the rusty fastening of which, after some little effort upon the part of the two, gave way, and entering a narrow opening, they found themselves in a small triangular passageway, from which a steep flight of stone steps led down through a hollow in the mass of wall to the room below. At the bottom of the steps was a heavy yoke and door, which stood ajar, hanging upon a single rusty hinge, and from the room within a dull gray light glimmered faintly. Miles pushed the door farther open, it creaked and grated horribly on its rusty hinge, and, as an instant answer to the discordant shriek, came a faint piping squeaking, a rustling, and a pattering of soft footsteps. The ghosts cried, guess going, in a quavering whisper, and for a moment Miles felt the chill of goose flesh creep up and down his spine. But the next moment he laughed. Nay, said he, they be rats, look at you, young fellow Francis, beased as big as Mother Joan's kitten. Give me that stone. He flung it at the rat, and it flew clattering across the floor. There was another pattering rustle of hundreds of feet, and then a breathless silence. The boys stood looking around them, and a strange enough sight it was. The room was a perfect circle of about 20 feet across, and was piled high with an indistinguishable mass of lumber, rude tables, rudder chairs, ancient chests, bits and remnants of cloth and sacking and leather, old helmets, and pieces of armor of a bygone time, broken spears and poleaxes, pots and pans, and kitchen furniture of all sorts and kinds. A straight beam of sunlight fell through a broken shutter like a bar of gold, and fell upon the floor in a long streak of dazzling light that illuminated the whole room with a yellow glow. By her lady said guess coin at last, in a hushed voice. Here is Father Time's Garrett for sure. Did's never see the like miles? Look at John Arbalest. Shaw Brutus himself used such and one. Nay, said Miles, but look at this saddle. Merry, here pierced a rat's nest in it. Clouds of dust rose as they rummaged along the mouldering mass, setting them coughing and sneezing. Now and then, a great gray rat would shoot out beneath their very feet and disappear like a sudden shadow into some hole or cranny in the wall. Come, said Miles at last, brushing the dust from his jacket. And we tarry here longer. We will have chance to see no other sights. The sun is falling low. An arched stairway upon the opposite side of the room from which they had entered wound upward through the wall. The stone steps being lighted by narrow slits of windows cut through the massive masonry. Above the room they had just left was another of the same shape and size, but with an oak floor sagging and rising into hollows and hills where the joist had rotted away beneath. It was bare and empty, and not even a rat was to be seen. Above was another room. Above that, another. All passages and stairways which connected the one story with the other being built in the wall, which was, were solid, perhaps 15 feet thick. From the third floor a straight flight of steps led upward to a closed door, from the other side of which shone a dazzling brightness of sunlight, and whence came a strange noise, a soft rustling, a melodious murmur. The boys put their shoulders against the door, which was fastened, and pushed with their might and mane, once, twice. Suddenly the lock gave way, and out they pitched headlong into a blaze of sunlight, a deafening clapping and uproar sounded in their ears, and scores of pigeons, suddenly disturbed rows in stormy flight. They sat up and looked around them in silent wonder. They were in a bower of leafy green. It was the top story of the tower, the roof of which had crumbled and toppled in, leaving it open to the sky, with only here and there a slanting beam or two supporting a portion of the tiled roof, affording shelter for the nests of pigeons crowded closely together. Over everything the ivy had grown into a mantling sheet, a network of shimmering green through which the sunlight fell flickering. This passeth wonder, said Gascoyne, at last breaking the silence. I, said Miles, I did never see the like in all my life, then look, yonder is a room beyond. Let us see what it is, Francis. Entering an arched doorway, the two found themselves in a beautiful little bolted chapel, about 18 feet long and 12 or 15 wide. It comprised the crown of one of the large massive buttresses, and from it opens the row of arched windows, which could be seen from below the green shimmering of the ivy leaves. The boys pushed aside the trailing tendrils and looked out and down. The whole castle lay spread below them with a busy people unconsciously intent upon matters of their daily work. They could see the gardener with bowed back, patiently working among the flowers in the garden, the stableboys below grooming the horses, a bevy of lavies in the privy garden, playing at shuttlecock with battled oars of wood, a group of gentlemen walking up and down in front of the earl's house. They could see the household servants hurrying hither and thither, two little scullions at fisticuffs, and a kitchen girl standing in the doorway, scratching her frowsy head. It was all like a puppet show of real life, each acting unconsciously apart in the play. The cool wind came in through the rustling leaves and found their cheeks, hot with the climb up the winding stairway. We will call it our airy, said guest coin, and it will be the hawks that live here. And that was how it got its name. The next day, Miles had the armourer make him a score of large spikes, which he and guest coin drove between the ivy branches and into the cement of the wall, and so made a safe passageway by which to reach the window niche in the wall.