“Sir Knight,” said his companion, in a melancholy voice, “it is not possible for thee or for me to forget Hastings. Thine ancestor did obtain there power, and title, and riches; mine did win nothing but honour and his grave. The chance may be ours in another field. If valour and desert in arms had had their meed the bastard of Normandy had never set foot upon the corpse of Harold.” “Thou errest, thou errest, good brother,” said Reginald unthinkingly; “the single arm of King William was sufficient to beat down Harold and his brothers to boot. Thine ancestor himself, Sir Lothaire, was light in the balance when weighed with the least of our Norman chivalry!” “Norman liar!” exclaimed Lothaire, and immediately giving his horse the spur, and causing him to make a demivolte, which brought him close to his companion’s side, he raised his ponderous arm, and dealt with his mailed hand so terrible a blow between the corselet and headpiece of his future brother-in-law, that Launcelot reeled upon his haunches, and his rider fell to the ground without sense or motion. Lothaire gazed for a moment upon the fallen Knight; and then, after beckoning to Robin to come up, put his horse into a hand gallop, and continued his route. Robin, when the formidable Saxon was out of sight, ventured to approach the scene of the fracas. Piteous was the sight which presented itself. Launcelot was standing beneath a neighbouring tree, still trembling with the shock he had received. Reginald lay motionless in the dust: his bright armour was soiled with earth and blood, which gushed out plentifully from his mouth and nostrils. Robin took off his helmet, and endeavoured, by throwing water over his features, to restore animation. After having spent a long time in the vain endeavour, he looked upon his fallen patron with an expression of utter despair, and muttered to himself, “My master is certainly dead; and there will be no wedding, nor revel, nor wassailing.” He continued for some minutes in deep contemplation, and then exclaimed, “An my project hold good, I will be revenged on the Saxon churl.” And with these words he began to disarm his master. While these incidents were taking place among those personages to whom our attention has been hitherto confined, the state of the inhabitants of Kennet Hold was such as calls for our notice. The MS., indeed, from which I draw this narrative, goes through all the minute particulars of Reginald’s journey, until it sets him down at the gate of his father-in-law; but, to avoid greater prolixity than is necessary, I will reserve this explanation for my _dénouement_, and for the present leaving my hero on his bed of earth, I will introduce my reader, without further delay, to the hall at Kennet Hold.