Leaving these parties to adjust matters between them, we stepped under the low doorway, and entered Rowland's room. Oh, certainly Bolt _had_ caught the spirit of the thing!--certainly he had penetrated down even to the very pathos that lay within the deeps of Roland's character. Buffon says "the style is the man;" there, the room was the man. That nameless, inexpressible, soldier-like, methodical neatness which belonged to Roland--that was the first thing that struck one--that was the general character of the whole. Then, in details, there, in stout oak shelves, were the books on which my father loved to jest his more imaginative brother,--there they were, Froissart, Barante, Joinville, the _Mort d'Arthur_, _Amadis of Gaul_, Spenser's _Fairy Queen_, a noble copy of Strutt's _Horda_, Mallet's _Northern Antiquities_, Percy's _Reliques_, Pope's _Homer_, books on gunnery, archery, hawking, fortification--old chivalry and modern war together cheek by jowl. Old chivalry and modern war!--look to that tilting helmet with the tall Caxton crest, and look to that trophy near it, a French cuirass--and that old banner (a knight's pennon) surmounting those crossed bayonets. And over the chimneypiece there--bright, clean, and, I warrant you, dusted daily--are Roland's own sword, his holsters, and pistols, yea, the saddle, pierced and lacerated, from which he had reeled when that leg----I gasped--I felt it all at a glance, and I stole softly to the spot, and, had Roland not been there, I could have kissed that sword as reverently as if it had been a Bayard's or a Sidney's. My uncle was too modest to guess my emotion; he rather thought I had turned my face to conceal a smile at his vanity, and said, in a deprecating tone of apology--"It was all Bolt's doing, foolish fellow." CHAPTER XLIX. Our host regaled us with a hospitality that notably contrasted his economical thrifty habits in London. To be sure, Bolt had caught the great pike which headed the feast; and Bolt, no doubt, had helped to rear those fine chickens _ab ovo_; Bolt, I have no doubt, made that excellent Spanish omelette; and for the rest, the products of the sheepwalk and the garden came in as volunteer auxiliaries--very different from the mercenary recruits by which those metropolitan _Condottieri_, the butcher and green-grocer, hasten the ruin of that melancholy commonwealth called "genteel poverty." Our evening passed cheerfully; and Roland, contrary to his custom, was talker in chief. It was eleven o'clock before Bolt appeared with a lantern to conduct me through the court-yard to my dormitory, among the ruins--a ceremony which, every night, shine or dark, he insisted upon punctiliously performing.