“The lad will do well enough,” said an old bowman, “yet not like his father; but where be the bowmen of Crecy now? At the last bout we had with them, the French turned their backs upon us at long range, and bid us shoot, whereas had we been the men our sires were, they would have paid dearly for their fool-hardy challenge.” Then stood up Adam Banister, a round thick-set youth, with brown hair and rosy face. “Good luck to thee, Banister,” was the cry. How easily he drew his ponderous bow: the arrow whizzed--alas, only the _second_ circle was attained. And now the third champion. It is Nicholas Grabber. Let our readers mark him, he will often figure in these pages. A lad of average height, with a head of very bright red hair, which seems positively to shine; his face is deeply freckled, but his appearance not altogether unprepossessing, save for a certain expression of slyness which would indicate a mixture of the fox in his character; those who believed in the transmigration of souls might recognize the _retriever_ in Gregory, the _bull_ in Banister, the _fox_ in Grabber, and--well we will leave them to designate the fourth after reading his history, for it was Cuthbert. One after the other they discharge their arrows; the first shaft strikes the bull’s-eye, but amid shouts of admiration, the second, that of Cuthbert, pierces as near the centre. “Hurrah!” “Grabber!” “Cuthbert!” and the names were repeated again and again by the crowd. “Move the target fifty yards further, and let them shoot yet again.” They were rivals, these two boys, and not such good friends as they should have been. Grabber envied Cuthbert his place in the Abbot’s favour, which _he_ had utterly failed to attain; for had he not run away, and had not his father sent him back to school, coupled between two foxhounds, under the charge of the huntsman, a story never forgotten by his schoolfellows.[9] However, he was a good shot, a ringleader in boyish mischief, and not without his friends. Again the arrows flew, but at this distance Grabber failed the bull’s-eye, just alighting on the rim. A few moments of breathless anticipation, and Cuthbert’s shaft, soaring through the air, attains the very centre, amidst shouts of wonder and admiration.[10] Grabber turned away disgusted, as Cuthbert advanced to receive the silver arrow from the chief forester, who superintended the “buttes.” Then rang out the Abbey bell for Compline, and the field was deserted to the townsfolk, who kept up the pastimes of archery, cudgel playing, bowls, and the like, till darkness set in. FOOTNOTES [7] See “Edwy the Fair,” and “Alfgar the Dane,” by the same author. [8] Froude, vol. I, p. 67. He well observes that he could hardly believe the figures from his experience of modern archery, but such was the Act 33, Henry VIII., cap. 9. [9] See Note D. [10] A far more remarkable instance of English archery is given in Scott’s “Anne of Geirstein.” CHAPTER III. _THE SECRET CHAMBER._