"Why, forsooth! Thou wert made a sturdy Englishman, with sinews and muscles wherewith to bend an honest longbow--not to have to turn a handle, like a butter-making wench, ere the bolt can be shot. And, moreover, suppose thou wert matched against an archer; before thy weapon were levelled I'll warrant there would be a dozen cloth-yard shafts bristling in thine hide--though one would be enough, I trow!" "But the Genoese?" "The Genoese, my son, were ever underhanded fighters, preferring to cause a gaping wound with a quarrel rather than a wholesome hole with an arrow. 'Tis said that on more than one occasion the Pope hath forbidden the use of the crossbow, and that the Second Lateran Council, a hundred years ago, did likewise." "How, then, do we find the crossbow still in use?" "I cannot tell, Raymond, save it be the natural perversity of men. But here we are at the shore." They had passed through the village, between rows of thatched cottages. Smoke was already beginning to issue from the hole in the roof that did duty for a chimney, showing that the inhabitants were early astir. The narrow road plunged sharply down to the mud-fringed shores of the river, for the tide was low, and long flats of treacherous slime extended almost from bank to bank, save for a channel of deep water midway between. With the air of a man who is thoroughly acquainted with the place, Redward Buckland followed an almost invisible path--termed throughout uncountable ages a Hard--that led across the mud flats to the edge of the water, Raymond treading carefully at his heels. At the end of the Hard lay a large, bluff-bowed boat, and, pulling the craft ashore by a length of rope, the archer tossed the oars into it and beckoned to his son to jump on board. "Whither are we going, father?" asked Raymond, as his sire pushed off, stepped awkwardly into the boat, and began to haul on board the heavy stone that served as an anchor. "Up the river to Botley, my son there to see Master Nicholas Hobbes." "And who is he?" rejoined Raymond with the inquisitiveness of youth. "Master Hobbes, of the city of Winton, is a fletcher, and his arrows are well known as the very best in the country. Also he brings with him a stock of bows made by Master Ford, whose fame as a bowyer extends well beyond the borders of Hamptonshire." "But why buy arrows, father; surely thou canst make thine own?" "Ah, Raymond! Raymond!" replied his father, shaking his head doubtfully, "thou hast yet to learn that though I could fashion mine own weapons, yet custom demands that I get them from a member of the honourable guild of bowyers and fletchers. Didst ever hear of a belted knight welding his own coat of mail?"