"Is it a battle?" exclaimed Roger eagerly. His father laughed. "Of a truth, thou art cut out for a soldier, my lad. Nay, ’tis not a battle; it is a journey." "Shall I take a journey?" "Not yet a while. Perchance, some day. But what sayest? Canst do without me for a month or twain?" "Whither go you, my Lord?" "I set forth for Cork this next Wednesday." "Where’s Cork?" "There shall be nigh all Ireland between us, little Roger." "But musn’t I go?" said Roger in a very disappointed tone. "Not yet a while," repeated his father. "Cork is wilder by far than Antrim. I must ensure me first that it shall be safe to have thee. If so be, I may send for thee in time." "But must I be all alone?" demanded the child in a changed tone. "All alone—with Wenteline and Master Byterre and Lawrence—for a little while. Then thou shalt either come to me, or go back to my Lady thy grandmother." "Oh, let me come to your Lordship! I love not women!" cried Roger, with the usual want of gallantry of small boys. "In very deed, I am shocked!" said the Earl, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes which made more impression on Roger than the accompanying words. "Howbeit, we shall see. Thou shouldst dearly love thy grandmother, Roger, for she loveth thee right well." "Oh aye, I love her all right!—but women wit nought of war and knighthood, and such like. They think you be good if you sit still and stare on a book. And that is monks’ gear, not soldiers’. I am a soldier." "Art thou, forsooth?" responded the Earl with a laugh. "Thou shalt be one day, maybe. Now, my doughty warrior, run to thy nurse. I have ado with these gentlemen." Two years had passed when this dialogue took place, since little Roger came from Wigmore to Ireland. He was growing a bright boy, still not particularly fond of study, but less averse to it than he had been, and developing a strong taste for military matters, and for the lighter accomplishments. He danced and sang well for his age, and was learning to play the cithern or guitar. He rode fearlessly, was a great climber and leaper, and considering his years a good archer, and a first-rate player of chess, foot-ball, club-ball (cricket), hand-tennis (fives), mall battledore and shuttlecock, and tables or back-gammon. As to drawing, nobody ever dreamed of teaching that to a medieval noble. The three Rs were also progressing fairly for a boy in the fourteenth century. The small household left at Carrickfergus had but a dull time of it after the Earl had ridden away for Cork. Two months, and half of a third, dragged wearily along, and not a word came from either Cork or Wigmore. The third month was drawing to its close when, late one snowy winter night, the faint sound of a horn announced the approach of visitors. "The saints give it maybe my Lord!" exclaimed Constantine Byterre, who was as weary of comparative solitude as a lively young man could well be.