Oakmede, notwithstanding the changes that for a century and a half had been taking place in the architecture and domestic life of England, stood in very much the same condition as it had done at the time of the Conquest, and said little for the taste or the ambition of its owners. It was a rude structure, partly of timber, partly of brick, with several outbuildings and a large courtyard, to which there was access by strong wooden gates--the whole being surrounded with a deep ditch or fosse, fortified with palisades. But such as the place was, the Icinglas had ever been proud to call it their own; and with a degree of satisfaction which he might not have felt if it had been the haughtiest and strongest of feudal castles, like Lewes, or Warwick, or Kenilworth, Oliver halted and wound his horn. After a little delay the drawbridge was lowered, and he rode through the great wooden gate into the courtyard, and dismounted at the door. As he did so he was met by a boy of sixteen, whose dress of scarlet, striped with yellow, was such as to make the squire stare with surprise, and then laugh merrily. “Wolf, son of Styr,” exclaimed he at length, “what frenzy has prompted thee to don such garments at sober and homely Oakmede? Bear in mind, varlet, that we are not now capering gaily at the court of King Alphonso. Beshrew me, Wolf, if men will not think that you are going on a masquerade when they see you thus attired in our peaceful hall.” “Patience, my young master,” replied the varlet, with a glance full of significance; “we have guests.” “Guests at Oakmede!” said Oliver, with some surprise. “Ay, guests,” repeated the varlet, “and one guest of quality especially, who, an’ I err not, will be freer than welcome.” “Varlet,” said Oliver, drawing himself up haughtily, “your tongue outruns your discretion. Guests of quality will ever be welcome at Oakmede, so long as they demean themselves with courtesy; and woe betide the guest, however high his rank or sounding his name, who shall venture to demean himself otherwise than courteously under the roof of the Icinglas, while the honour of their name is in my keeping! But of whom speak you?” “Of the Lord Hugh de Moreville, who has been here for hours.” Oliver’s countenance fell; he breathed hard, and his manner was uneasy. Recovering himself, however, he said, with a sigh-- “What! Hugh de Moreville at Oakmede? A prodigy, by my faith! But, in the quality of guest, even my kinsman must be made welcome; wherefore, Wolf, see that the knaves lose no time in placing the supper on the board. Let not this Norman lord have cause to impeach our hospitality.”