"Well, fair wife, so our fledgling hath flown, let us get indoors and pray to God for His mercy." *CHAPTER III.* *OF THE FLEDGLING REJOICING IN HIS FREEDOM.* When Ralph trotted after the little cavalcade, which he had allowed to get ahead of him as he waved his final adieu to his parents and his home, he felt all the pride of boyhood budding into independent manhood. He had long chafed at his inactive life. The rough experience of the late civil wars had taught men to live fast, and many a hardy knight had begun the fierce struggle in the hand-strokes of war at the age of twelve or thirteen. The boyhood of King Edward the Fourth had often been told him, how early he had learned the accomplishments of the tilt-yard, and how early he had practised them on the stern field of war. A king by the right of his own good sword at the age of twenty, he had fought in many deadly fights as leader and simple man-at-arms for several years before. Ralph had always been a good boy at his lessons, for he was fond of the chaplain who taught him, but the book he loved most of all was the recently printed book of Sir Thomas Malory, who had compiled and translated the Mort-d’Arthur. He gloated over the description of the single combats, the jousts, and the tourneys in that poetic story, and never tired of the numberless tales of "how the good knight Sir Bors or Sir Lamorak laid on either strokes, and how they foined and lashed, and gave each other blows till the blood ran down, and each stood astonied." His favourite knight was Sir Beaumains. He admired Sir Launcelot, but he was too far above him, while Sir Beaumains was only a beginner, and went through adventures which were not too far out of the common as possibly to occur to himself. And now he was on the actual road to fortune. He was going to be trained in the household of a great knight, live in a castle, and have daily instruction with youths like himself, aspirants to fame and martial deeds. The fresh air of the morning seemed never before so fresh, never had the birds sung so blithely. How springy the turf seemed under his horse’s hoofs. He sang gaily as he trotted along, and flicked at the flies that tried to settle on his horse’s neck. "Softly, Master Ralph," cried Humphrey. "Thou art a light weight, I know, but we have far to go, and ’tis best to let the cattle go quiet." The Abbot had settled himself comfortably in his saddle, and called his young kinsman up to him. The servants fell a little behind, Humphrey trying to draw the mendicant and his young daughter into conversation. But he only received short answers from the man, while the girl barely answered at all. The serving-man, unable to make anything out of either of them, gave up the attempt, and began to talk to the attendants of the Abbot.