Now the black fought at a disadvantage, for he was on but three feet and his neck was drawn about in an awkward and unnatural position. His efforts became weaker and weaker. The boy talked incessantly to him in a quiet voice, and there was a shadow of a smile upon his lips. Now he bore heavily upon the black withers, pulling the horse toward him. Slowly the beast sank upon his bent knee—pulling backward until his off fore leg was stretched straight before him. Then, with a final surge, the youth pulled him over upon his side, and, as he fell, slipped prone beside him. One sinewy hand shot to the rope just beneath the black chin—the other grasped a slim, pointed ear. For a few minutes the horse fought and kicked to gain his liberty, but with his head held to the earth, he was as powerless in the hands of the boy as a baby would have been. Then he sank panting and exhausted into mute surrender. “Well done!” cried one of the knights. “Simon de Montfort himself never mastered a horse in better order, my boy. Who be thou?” In an instant, the lad was upon his feet his eyes searching for the speaker. The horse, released, sprang up also, and the two stood—the handsome boy and the beautiful black—gazing with startled eyes, like two wild things, at the strange intruder who confronted them. “Come, Sir Mortimer!” cried the boy, and turning he led the prancing but subdued animal toward the castle and through the ruined barbican into the court beyond. “What ho, there, lad!” shouted Paul of Merely. “We would not harm thee—come, we but ask the way to the castle of De Stutevill.” The three knights listened but there was no answer. “Come, Sir Knights,” spoke Paul of Merely, “we will ride within and learn what manner of churls inhabit this ancient rookery.” As they entered the great courtyard, magnificent even in its ruined grandeur, they were met by a little, grim old man who asked them in no gentle tones what they would of them there. “We have lost our way in these devilish Derby hills of thine, old man,” replied Paul of Merely. “We seek the castle of Sir John de Stutevill.” “Ride down straight to the river road, keeping the first trail to the right, and when thou hast come there, turn again to thy right and ride north beside the river—thou canst not miss the way—it be plain as the nose before thy face,” and with that the old man turned to enter the castle. “Hold, old fellow!” cried the spokesman. “It be nigh onto sunset now, and we care not to sleep out again this night as we did the last. We will tarry with you then till morn that we may take up our journey refreshed, upon rested steeds.” The old man grumbled, and it was with poor grace that he took them in to feed and house them over night. But there was nothing else for it, since they would have taken his hospitality by force had he refused to give it voluntarily.