"Red Buckland, thou art becoming chicken-hearted in thine old age. The boy--a lusty youth he looks--cannot remain with thee for ever," argued the soldier. "Now, what say you; join our company once again, and bring him with thee? Methinks there are many such, nay, even younger and of less frame and brawn, who have already set out for the wars. Come, now; again I ask thee, wilt join?" "Dickon, thou dost press me hard so that I can scarce refuse. Yet no answer will I give till I have spoken with my boy." At that moment a trumpet sounded, and the men stood to their arms, forming up in two lines on either side of the road. The archers, armed with short swords or axes in addition to the deadly longbow, faced the men-at-arms, who, protected with breastplate, iron helmet, gorget and greaves, grasped their twelve-foot spears, gazing steadfastly in front as their leader rode slowly between the lines. Sir John Hacket, Constable of the King's Castle at Portchester, and Governor of the Town of Portsmouth (to give him his official title), was then in his fortieth year, yet, from the effects of campaigning under exceptional circumstances in all parts of Western Europe, he looked considerably older, his hair being a snowy white, contrasting vividly with his brick-red complexion. He was accoutred _cap-à-pie_ in banded mail with aillettes, rerebraces, vambraces, and roundels, his richly embroidered surcoat being emblazoned with his arms. By his left side hung a long falchion, while over the right hip was the _misericorde_, or dagger, with which a knight demanded his dismounted adversary's surrender or else gave him a _coup de grâce_. On his head he wore a flat cap of crimson velvet, his steel bascinet being carried by a squire; while a mounted man-at-arms bore his lance. As he proceeded between the lines of armed men, noting with undisguised satisfaction their martial bearing, Sir John's glance fell upon Redward and his son as they stood, with a knot of spectators from the neighbouring village, a little way behind the archers. "Certes," he cried to one of his attendant squires, "'tis my old master-bowman! Bring him hither." Thus Redward, with doffed cap, found himself once again before his beloved chief. "Ah, Buckland, I see the blood of a good old stock still flows in thy veins," he said, after questioning him over various matters pertaining to his welfare, "I trust I shall see thee again under my banner anon!" And setting spurs to his charger the knight rode to the edge of the river, leaving the old archer tormented with thoughts of the rival claims of home and camp. The work of transporting the detachment across the Hamble river proceeded apace, the whole of the operations being under the personal supervision of the Constable; and, true to the usages of warfare, the task was carried out in strictly military fashion.