“Jest not on solemn subjects, Seymour,” he said soberly, “Wine may carry me over one more pike-parade…. Good lad…. Here’s to thee…. Why should gentlemen drill?… I came to fight for the King, not to … But, isn’t this thy day for de Warrenne? Oh, ten million fiends! Plague and pest! And I cannot see thee stick him, Seymour …” and the speaker dashed the black drinking-vessel violently on the ground, having carefully emptied it. The boy did not much like him. His lace collar was enormous and his black velvet coat was embroidered all over with yellow silk designs, flowers, and patterns. It was like the silly mantel-borders and things that Mrs. Pont, the housekeeper, did in her leisure time. (“Cruel-work” she called it, and the boy quite agreed.) This man’s face was pink and fair, his hair golden. “Warn him not of the hilt-thrust, Seymour, lad,” he said suddenly. “Give it him first—for a sneering, bullying, taverning, chambering knave.” The tall gentleman glanced at his down-flung cup, raised his eyebrows, and drank from the bottle. “Such _would_ annoy _you_, Hal, of course,” he murmured. A man dressed in what appeared to be a striped football jersey under a leather waistcoat and steel breast-plate, high boots and a steel helmet led up a great horse. The boy loved the horse. It was very like “Fire”. The gentleman (called Seymour) patted it fondly, stroked his nose, and gave it a piece of his bread. “Well, Crony Long-Face?” he said fondly. He then put his left foot in the great box-stirrup and swung himself into the saddle—a very different kind of saddle from those with which the boy was familiar. It reminded him of Circuses and the Lord Mayor’s Show. It was big enough for two and there was a lot of velvet and stuff about it and a fine gold _C.R._—whatever that might mean—on a big pretty cloth under it (perhaps the gentleman’s initials were C.R. just as his own were D. de W. and on some of his things). The great fat handle of a great fat pistol stuck up on each side of the front of the saddle. “Follow,” said the gentleman to the iron-bound person, and moved off at a walk towards a road not far distant. “Stap him! Spit him, Seymour,” called the pink-faced man, “and warn him not of the hilt-thrust.” As he passed the corner of the camp, two men with great axe-headed spear things performed curious evolutions with their cumbersome weapons, finally laying the business ends of them on the ground as the gentleman rode by. He touched his hat to them with his switch. Continuing for a mile or so, at a walk, he entered a dense coppice and dismounted. “Await me,” he said to his follower, gave him the curb-rein, and walked on to an open glade a hundred yards away. (It was a perfect spot for Red Indians, Smugglers, Robin Hood, Robinson Crusoe or any such game, the boy noted.) Almost at the same time, three other men entered the clearing, two together, and one from a different quarter.