“Black Lightning too, my best colt, when I deemed the lad fitted out for years to come. I never sent home the like message to my father under the last good King Henry, but purveyed myself of a horse on the battlefield more than once. But those good old days are over, and lads think more of velvet and broidery than of lances and swords. Forsooth, their coats-of-arms are good to wear on silk robes instead of helm and shield; and as to our maids, give them their rein, and they spend more than all the rest on women’s tawdry gear!” Poor Grisell! when she had bought nothing ornamental, and nothing for herself except a few needles. However, in spite of murmurs, the xvj crowns were raised and sent away with Black Lightning; and as time went on Grisell became more and more a needful person. Bernard was stronger, and even rode out on a pony, and the fame of his improvement brought other patients to the Lady Grisell from the vassals, with whom she dealt as best she might, successfully or the reverse, while her mother, as her health failed, let fall more and more the reins of household rule. CHAPTER XII WORD FROM THE WARS Above, below, the Rose of Snow, Twined with her blushing face we spread. GRAY’S _Bard_. NEWS did not travel very fast to Whitburn, but one summer’s day a tall, gallant, fair-faced esquire, in full armour of the cumbrous plate fashion, rode up to the gate, and blew the family note on his bugle. “My son! my son Rob,” cried the lady, starting up from the cushions with which Grisell had furnished her settle. Robert it was, who came clanking in, met by his father at the gate, by his mother at the door, and by Bernard on his crutch in the rear, while Grisell, who had never seen this brother, hung back. The youth bent his knee, but his outward courtesy did not conceal a good deal of contempt for the rude northern habits. “How small and dark the hall is! My lady, how old you have grown! What, Bernard, still fit only for a shaven friar! Not shorn yet, eh? Ha! is that Grisell? St. Cuthbert to wit! Copeland has made a hag of her!” “’Tis a good maid none the less,” replied her father; the first direct praise that she had ever had from him, and which made her heart glow. “She will ne’er get a husband, with such a visage as that,” observed Robert, who did not seem to have learnt courtesy or forbearance yet on his travels; but he was soon telling his father what concerned them far more than the maiden’s fate. “Sir, I have come on the part of the Duke of York to summon you. What, you have not heard? He needs, as speedily as may be, the arms of every honest man. How many can you get together?” “But what is it? How is it? Your Duke ruled the roast last time I heard of him.” “You know as little as my horse here in the north!” cried Rob.