“Let’s see the inside of the gentleman’s fist.” Merlin swung round on his stool and faced them, and his face was not pleasant to behold. “Fools and jays, come, look. Bring a torch.” They gathered round, and he held out his hand with something that glittered on the third finger. Their heads came together over it, the light of the torch flickering on their faces. Then Guy straightened with a good, wholesome oath. “Son of Satan, the King’s signet!” Merlin’s lips curled. “Is it a good pledge, sirs?” “We serve the King!” “Fetch me a grindstone, neighbours; I will put me a double edge on my knife.” A head came poking in at the door. “Father Merlin, the boat is at the steps.” “Come, good rogues, come.” They picked up sundry bundles and swarmed after him down the narrow way between the houses to the river. A boat was waiting at the steps, a man squatting in the bow and holding the chain. Merlin climbed in and the rest followed. “Up stream, up stream, my brothers. Let London town sing, ‘_Nunc dimittis_.’?” CHAPTER XXIX When they had breasted the chalk hills with their beech woods, great yews, and wild junipers, and saw the lush valley country below them, Cavendish rode on ahead to speak with the King’s reeve, who kept the Manor of the Black Mere. Cavendish had hunted in these parts, and knew the ways and the lie of the land. They saw him ford a stream that ran at the foot of the hills, splashing through the shallows, the water crackling into white foam under his horse’s hoofs. Knollys and Fulk rode together, the mock page following on her pad. She made a comely youth with her ripe lips, and her dark eyes, and that daring and imperious chin of hers in the air. The hood of chain mail hid her hair, that was fastened up in a silver net. Her long-lipped mouth had an elusive and mischievous look, and sometimes she smiled as she watched Fulk in his black harness masterful even in the saddle. Knollys was in a playful mood. “It is not generous of us to set her to watch your beard grow, my son, yet she chose to come in that short cloak and her green hose. I can see petticoats in that big wallet strapped to the pad’s saddle. Sir Tristram and his lady! And no loving-cup needed!” Fulk was a little in the air, and had too much passion in him to be playful. “We owe her these heads on our shoulders.” “Tsst, lad! The girl is splendid. I would change with you, if I could. To start again on adventures in strange lands with such a mate to keep your blood afire! Ha! the French wars, the Breton moors, the fine, lusty, galloping life! And the black eyes and the wines of Spain! If I were young again—if I were young.”