“Cheer thee, noble Knight; be not afraid for a woman. Thou hast, princely Reginald, many valorous and knightly qualities, the least of which might win a richer bride than the daughter of Leofwyn and the sister of Lothaire. Surely thou dost obtain honour at those splendid jousts, from which thou knowest our Saxon habits do utterly revolt; and, doubtless, thou hast skill in foreign music, which thou knowest our Saxon ears do utterly detest; and thou art also skilled in that foreign language which thou knowest a Saxon doth so loath, that he would have his tongue torn from his throat rather than give utterance to its accents.” “Brother,” said Reginald, who began to perceive the necessity of conciliating Lothaire, “I have meddled but little with courts, and, in my ignorance of these accomplishments, I am a perfect Saxon. But I prithee tell me, in love and fellowship, by what means or endeavours it is possible for me to win the goodwill of thy sister.” “I will show thee,” said Lothaire. “First, thou must learn to speak, not tardily through thy teeth, as is thy present method, but boldly, openly, and fearlessly, as one man should do to another.” “Whether this be possible, I doubt,” observed Reginald. “Secondly,” said his instructor, “at my father’s board thou must not be too ready to relinquish the goblet.” “I will do thee reason--I will do thee reason, Sir Lothaire,” returned Reginald. “Marry, I shall need but little instruction upon that head.” And he strained his eye as he spoke in the direction of Kennet Hold, as if he would measure the space which lay between his lip and the flagon. “Thirdly,” resumed Lothaire, “thou must hate a Norman as thou wouldest hate the foul fiend.” “I do,” cried Reginald; “I do hate a Norman: the Norman we parted from e’en now, Richard de Mallory. A blight upon him! He hath bound me, scoffed at me, worried my body and my mind, until I can scarcely keep my saddle on my journey or recollect whither the journey tendeth. A murrain on the proud knight! Doth he fancy that I care aught whether the father or the son hath the better? whether the Henry I serve be called the second or the third?” “If I may risk prophecy,” muttered the Saxon, “thou wilt never see the third Henry wearing his father’s crown. We have worn the yoke of your tyrants long enough; and it is time that the throne of Alfred should be again filled by one of his descendants. Despised and oppressed as we are, there are still true Saxons enow to drive ye headlong from the land ye have spoiled.” The two young men continued to ride as far apart as courtesy and their roads would permit, and the line of conversation into which they had fallen did not seem likely to promote kinder feelings between them. Reginald’s national prejudices began to rise high within him, and to overpower the want of energy which was his failing. “Sir Lothaire,” he replied doggedly, “methinks thou hast forgotten Hastings.”