He still lived with Hob and Piers, and slept at the hut, but he went further and further afield among the hills and mosses, often with no companion save Watch, so that he might without interruption watch the clear streams and wonder what filled their fountains, and why the sea was never full, or stand on the sea-shore studying the tides, and trying to construct a theory about them. King Henry was satisfied with ‘Hitherto shalt thou come and no farther,’ but He who gave that decree must have placed some cause or rule in nature thus to affect them. Could it be the moon? The waves assuredly obeyed the changes of the moon, and Hal was striving to keep a record in strokes marked by a stick on soft earth or rows of pebbles, so as to establish a rule. ‘Aye, aye,’ quoth Hob. ‘Poor fellow, he is not much wiser than the hermit. See how he plays with pebbles and stones. You’ll make nought of him, fine grown lad as he is. Why, he’ll sit dazed and moonstruck half a day, and all the night, staring up at the stars as if he would count them!’ So spoke the stout shepherd to Simon Bunce, pointing to the young man, who lay at his length upon the grass calculating the proportions of the stones that marked the relations of hours of the flood tide and those of the height of the moon. Above and beyond was a sundial cut out in the turf, from his own observations after the hints that the hermit and the friar had given him. ‘Ha now, my lord, I have rare news for you.’ The unwonted title did not strike Hal’s unaccustomed ears, and he continued moving his lips, ‘High noon, spring tide.’ ‘There, d’ye see?’ said Hob, ‘he heeds nothing. ‘That I and my goodwife should have bred up a mooncalf! Here, Hal, don’t you know Simon? Hear his tidings!’ ‘Tidings enow! King Henry is freed, King Edward is fled. My Lord of Warwick has turned against him for good and all. King Henry is proclaimed in all the market-places! I heard it with my own ears at Penrith!’ And throwing up his cap into the air, while the example was followed by Hob, with ‘God save King Henry, and you my Lord of Clifford.’ The sound was echoed by a burst of voices, and out of the brake suddenly stood the whole band of outlaws, headed by Giles Spearman, but Hal still stood like one dazed. ‘King Harry, the hermit, free and on his throne,’ he murmured, as one in a dream. ‘Ay, all things be upset and reversed,’ said Spearman, with a hand on his shoulder. ‘No herd boy now, but my Lord of Clifford.’ ‘Come to his kingdom,’ repeated Hal. ‘My own King Harry the hermit! I would fain go and see him.’ ‘So you shall, my brave youth, and carry him your homage and mine,’ said Spearman. ‘He will know me for poor Giles Musgrave, who upheld his standard in many a bloody field. We will off to Sir Lancelot at Threlkeld now! Spite of his policy of holes and corners, he will not now refuse to own you for what you are, aye, and fit you out as becomes a knight.’