“Probably your ancestor himself was a swineherd in Normandy, while mine were Thanes in England, and their courteous manners have descended to you,” retorted Martin; whereupon Drogo laid his bowstring about his daring junior. Forgetting all disparity of age, the youngster flew at him, and struck him full between the eyes with his clenched fist; the other boys, instead of interfering, laughed heartily at the scene, and watched its development with interest, thinking Martin would get a good switching. But they forgot one thing, or rather did not know it. Boxing was not a knightly exercise, not taught in the tilt yard, and Drogo could only use his natural weapons as a French boy uses his now. But in the greenwood it was different, and young Martin had been left again and again, as a part of a sound education, to “hold his own” against his equals in age and size, by aid of the noble art of fisticuffs; what wonder then that Drogo’s eyes were speedily several shades darker than nature had designed them to be, of which there was no obvious need, and that victory would probably have decked the brows of the younger combatant had not the elders interfered. “This is no work for a gentleman.” “If fight you must, run a course against each other with blunted spears, since they won’t grant us sharp ones, more’s the pity.” “The youngster should learn to govern his temper.” “Nay, he did not begin it.” The last speaker was Hubert. Martin had walked away into the wood, as if he neither expected nor asked justice from his companions, and Hubert followed him. “There they go together.” “Two boys, each without a second name.” “But after all,” said Louis, “I like Hubert better for standing up for his friend.” “They are queer friends, as unlike as light and darkness,” said Drogo. “Talking of darkness reminds one of your eyes, they are—” “Hold your tongue.” And a new quarrel commenced, which we will not stop to behold, but follow the two into the woods; “older, deeper, grayer,” with oaks that the Druids might have worshipped beneath. Chapter 4: In the Greenwood. While they were in sight of the other boys Martin’s pride kept him from displaying any emotion, but when they were alone in the recesses of the woods, and Hubert, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder bade him “not mind them,” his bosom commenced to heave, and he had great difficulty in repressing his tears. It was not mere grief, it was the sense of desolation; he felt that he was not in his own sphere, and but for the thought of the chaplain would willingly have returned to the outlaws in the greenwood. No boy at a strange school feels as out of place as he, and the worst was, he did not get acclimatised in the least. He had not found his vocation. Then again, he had been sweetly lectured upon his temper by Father Edmund, and had promised to control it. Still, was he to be switched by Drogo? He knew he never could bear it, and didn’t quite feel that he ought to do so.