"Hullo!" he said in voice of quiet amusement, peering down at the boy beneath him. "May I ask what you are doing here?" If he was a Frenchman, he spoke English without a trace of accent. "Hanging on for dear life!" gurgled Kit, the scent-bottle between his teeth. The young man broke into a ripple of boyish laughter. "Flew so far: then the wings gave out, eh?" He rose to his feet, and Kit saw he was wearing buck-skin breeches and top-boots. Bending, he grasped the boy's wrists. "One--two--and--h'up she comes!" He staggered back, and fell with a gay laugh, the boy on top of him. "Thank you," said Kit between his teeth. "Let go my wrists, please." The man, lying on his back, smiled up at him. How strong he was! how young! and how handsome! Tears still bedewed his lashes, and his eyes had the sparkle and colour of the sword he wore at his side. "What have you got between those nice milk-teeth of yours, Little Chap?" "Nothing for you," stammered the boy. "That is--only eggs. I've been birds-nesting. Let go, please. I must get home. I'm late. I'll get into a row as it is." The other loosed his wrists suddenly; a long arm swept about him; the thumb and forefinger of a hand like a steel-vice pressed his jaws asunder. "Parrdon," said a voice, half tender, half teasing, the roll of the r for the first time betraying an alien strain. Perforce the boy must open. The scent-bottle rolled out upon the grass, and trundled towards the edge. Lithe as a panther, the young man pounced and snatched it. As he did so, Kit leapt on his back. "Give it up or I dirk!" he panted. For all answer the man fell back on top of him with the merriest laughter. The boy's breath was shaken out of him. Two hands loosed his; and he was left gasping on his back. "I say! did I hurt you?" came an anxious voice. Kit scrambled to his feet. "Give it up!" he cried passionately, thrusting out a hand. "It was given me. It's a trust." "It's only eggs," the other reminded him, twinkling. "I don't care what it is!" cried the boy. "It's mine!" He was almost in tears, stamping his foot, much as in old days when Gwen, a born tease, had stolen his woolly bear, and refused to give it up. The man made him feel like a baby--he, a King's officer. "Forgive me," replied the other. "It is mine." "Finding's keeping, I suppose!" sneered the boy, ablaze. "You take it by brute force--you steal it--and it's yours! And I daresay you call yourself a gentleman!"