Suddenly Badger diverged from the path, and, dismounting, led his horse through the thicket, putting aside the branches as he passed. Presently a rude dwelling became visible, with a little clearing around it. This was the spot where the herdsman, or, more properly speaking, the ranger, dwelt. It was a rough and primitive sort of building, made of wood. Stout oak limbs, deeply inserted into the ground, and from which the bark had been removed, formed the main supports, whilst the arched roof and interspaces of the sides were interlaced in most fantastic shapes by smaller branches of the oak, all carefully peeled. Upon this framework of oaken branches the roof and sides were dexterously thatched by heather from the neighbouring moor, and over all a rude daubing of mud and lime mixed; the whole making a rude, but, nevertheless, a warm and dry abode. Around the entrance there was a few yards paved with smooth limestone pebbles gathered from the neighbouring brook. Amid these were interspersed most fantastically the knuckle-bones of deer, sheep, wolves, and other animals. Grotesque and whimsical all this seemed, but it jumped with the fancy of the architect, who was literally a child of the forest. Badger, as he drew nigh, heard hasty scuffling of feet and barricading of the door. But when he gave a knock all was as still as death in a moment. "Hillo, within there!" shouted Badger. "There is nothing but good Saxons here." The ranger's wife recognised at once the voice of Badger, and undid the door; and the three entered, leaving their horses standing together. Ethel, meanwhile, was listening within in great trepidation, but when she discovered that their unexpected visitants were Saxon, she emerged from an inner room. As her eyes rested upon Oswald, who had removed his helmet, the burning blushes mounted in a deep crimson glow to her face and neck, and she cast an anxiously nervous look at her disarranged toilette. "Ah!" said Oswald, taking her hand and raising it to his lips, "is this the sweet little Ethel who used to watch us rough boys play at the joust, and fence with our broadswords?--whom we used to accompany through the Bruneswald on her hawking expeditions? Why, how you have grown, too! To be sure, these terrible times have left no opportunities for neighbourly amenities. Why, 'tis three years since I last set eyes upon you. Ah, I know 'tis very sad," said he, as he saw the tears start into her eyes; "but dry those eyes, timid one, we will endeavour to find a covert where you may hide; and we will put about it a girdle of steel, and woe shall be to the Norman who obtrudes his hated presence near."