“And I,” put in Cedric, “should any wondrous luck or chance bring the prize to me, could give her to my father. He hath a little meadow by his cottage in Pelham Wood where a cow could find sweet pasture, and, in the cot, three little ones who’d thrive on the milk. Marvin, be sure I’ll take the prize from thee if ever I can.” “An thou winnest it, thou’lt shoot well, Cedric lad,” answered Old Marvin with a grin. “’Tis now full many years since I found any man to best me.” But now I caught sight of my father, Lord Mountjoy, astride the palfrey he rode in those days of recovering from the hurts he had at Shrewsbury, and riding toward the clearing on the hill where the woodmen piled the logs for our fireplace burning. I waved and beckoned to him till he paused and turned his horse’s head toward us. In a moment we three stood about him and told of our plans for the archery match. Most of the words were mine, but Cedric and Old Marvin himself were not a whit less eager. Soon I had drawn from Lord Mountjoy the promise that we should have our will, and that the archer festival should be held in the Mountjoy lands in three days’ time. But, hot and eager as I was, I noted even then a backwardness in my father’s answers that puzzled me. ’Twas not like him to care for the gift of a cow or a colt to any of his faithful retainers; and I knew he loved a fair match at the targets as well as any. After we had said “good day” to Marvin, and as Cedric and I walked down the road toward the wood on either side of his horse, Father gave utterance to his worrying thought. “Dickon, ’tis but natural at thy years to be eager and headlong in thy thinking; but has the thought not come to thee at all that this match that thou dost plan so joyously may end in sorrow to thy old instructor in arms?” “How so?” I questioned,—but even in the saying, I saw a glimmer of his meaning. “For thirty years and more Old Marvin hath been leading archer of Mountjoy. He nears three score and ten; and may the saints bespeak him many years of peace after all the toils and perils he hath undergone for our house. Mayhap his eye is as clear and his hand as true as ever; but I have seen somewhat of the shooting of Cedric here; and it may be that he’ll best Old Marvin at the thing which is his dearest pride. Should that happen, canst thou warrant Marvin will not carry home a bitter heart from thy festival?” “Oh, Father! Surely thou dost jest. Marvin is no child to grieve at being beaten in fair play, should that chance befall him. I warrant we’ll see never a sign of it.” “’Tis true enough,” said my father slowly, “we’ll never see a sign of it; but the bitterness may be there ne’ertheless. But I bethink me now,—get John o’ the Wallfield or some other Mountjoy archer to make a third. Then Marvin can be but second at worst, and ’twill make a fairer show for all these friends we are to bid come to our fête. John is ever a hopeful youth, and will shoot as though his life depended on it.”