Audrey had made one brief visit to her old home since she had gone to be a maid to Lady Adelicia Giffard, and in that time not only Dickon but other youths of the neighborhood had found her comely. Tall and straight and lissome, with the blue eyes and yellow hair of her people, white as milk and fair as a wild rose, she was a girl to be remembered--Audrey. But she cared for none of them and went back to Winchester with her lady. Since that time Sussex had been no home for Dickon. He had learned all that any smith of those parts could teach him and all that he could teach himself, or he might have set his mind to his work. To Dickon work was more than bread and meat; it was the heart of life. Now his unquiet mind returned to an old ambition of his, to be a master armorer. This desire dated from a day in his early teens, when in his father's absence a Templar stopped to have his horse shod. Dickon could shoe horses as well as anybody. But when the knight wished a bit of repairing done on his helmet it was beyond the lad's knowledge, and the work had to wait until old Adam Smith came back from Lewes. Meanwhile Dickon had eyed with a great fascination the Templar's sword, a magnificent piece of steel-work, blade and scabbard ornamented with curious inlay-work of gold. He dared not ask about it even if he could have made his question understood. The knight spoke only Norman and a little mixed French and English, and Dickon knew scarcely a word of any language but Saxon. When his father had come home and the knight had gone on his way, Dickon asked eager questions. “'Tis a sword of Damascus,” the old smith said shortly. “Belike he got it where he's been--in the Holy Land.” “Is't holy work then?” The boy knew as much of Palestine as he did of the planet Mars, the folk of his acquaintance being little given to pilgrimage. Adam Smith snorted. “Nay, 'tis paynim work. Damascus is a heathen city. I mind somebody telling me that the only man that could forge that steel had been carried off to another country, so that no more of it could be made. They have a won'erful knowledge of metal-work, those infidels.” “Belike Satan taught 'em,” grunted Wat of the Weald. “I don't hold wi' such trickery myself.” Adam straightened his back and shook his white head. “Satan never did work as good as yon sword,” he chuckled. “'Tis a joy to the touch. Nay, lad, Satan teaches men to be idle--that's his cunning.” Dickon grinned, for Wat was never known to work save when driven, and like many others of his temper, looked at all devices for the increase of output with disfavor. Evidently there was no light on the subject of Damascus blades to be gained here, but the boy never forgot the look of that sword.