With his unchecked, unbidden joy, His dread of books, and love of fun. He was rapidly acquiring ease and dexterity in all the sports of the tilt yard; the quintain had now no terrors for him, and he was quite at home on horseback already. Naturally he was rising fast in favour with his fellows, the only lad who seemed to stand aloof from him being Drogo de Harengod. Drogo was about a year older than Hubert, tall and dark, of a haughty and intolerant disposition, and very “masterful,” but, as the old saw says: _Mores puerorum se detegunt inter ludendum_. So we will draw no more pen and ink sketches, but leave our characters to show themselves by their deeds. It was a pleasant evening in early autumn, and the scene was the park of Kenilworth, some few months after the arrival of our two pages at the castle. Half a dozen of the youthful aspirants to chivalry, amongst whom were Drogo, Hubert, and Martin, gathered under an oak occupying an elevated site in the park: they had evidently just left the forest, for hares and rabbits were lying on the ground, the result of a little foray into the cover. “What a view we have here; one can see the towers of Warwick, over the woods.” “And there is the line of hills over Keinton and Radway {9}.” “And there Black Down Hill.” “And there the spires of Coventry.” “Yes,” said Drogo, “but it is not like the view from my uncle’s castle in the Andredsweald, over a far wilder forest than this of Arden, with the great billowy downs for a southern bulwark. There be wolves, yea, boars, and for lesser beasts of prey wildcats, badgers, and polecats; while the deer are as plentiful as sheep.” “And where is that castle?” said Hubert. “At Walderne; my uncle is Nicholas de Harengod, and some day the castle will be mine.” Martin looked up with strange interest. “What! Walderne Castle yours!” “Yes, have you heard of it?” “And seen it.” “Seen it?” “Yes, afar off,” said the lad dreamily, for Hubert gave him a warning look. “Even as a cat may look at a king’s palace.” “But those woods are full of outlaws,” said another lad, Louis de Chalgrave. “All the better; it will be rare sport to hunt them out.” “Easier said than done,” muttered Martin, but not so low that his words were unheard. “What is easier said than done?” cried Drogo. “I mean the hunting out those outlaws. Ever since you Normans came, in the days of the usurper you call the Conqueror, it has been talked about but never done.” “Usurper we call the Conqueror, pretty words these for the park of Kenilworth,” said several voices. “They suit the descendants of the men who let themselves be beaten at Hastings.” “In any place but this Kenilworth they would cost a fellow his ears.” “Yes, but Earl Simon loves the English.” “Or he wouldn’t degrade us by bringing louts from the greenwood amongst us—boys whom our fathers would have disdained to set to mind their swine,” said Drogo.