“There are odds between going forward and backward,” said Master Headley, dryly. “Ha! Art hurt? Thou bleedst,” he exclaimed, laying his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, and drawing him to the light. “’Tis no blood of mine,” said Stephen, as Ambrose likewise came to join in the examination. “It is my poor Spring’s. He took the coward’s blow. His was all the honour, and we have left him there on the heath!” And he covered his face with his hands. “Come, come, my good child,” said Master Headley; “we will back to the place by times to-morrow when rogues hide and honest men walk abroad. Thou shalt bury thine hound, as befits a good warrior, on the battle-field. I would fain mark his points for the effigy we will frame, honest Tibble, for St. Julian. And mark ye, fellows, thou godson Giles, above all, who ’tis that boast of their valour, and who ’tis that be modest of speech. Yea, thanks, mine host. Let us to a chamber, and give us water to wash away soil of travel and of fray, and then to supper. Young masters, ye are my guests. Shame were it that Giles Headley let go farther them that have, under Heaven and St. Julian, saved him in life, limb, and purse.” The inn was large, being the resort of many travellers from the south, often of nobles and knights riding to Parliament, and thus the brothers found themselves accommodated with a chamber, where they could prepare for the meal, while Ambrose tried to console his brother by representing that, after all, poor Spring had died gallantly, and with far less pain than if he had suffered a wasting old age, besides being honoured for ever by his effigy in St. Faith’s, wherever that might be, the idea which chiefly contributed to console his master.