第 四 章 · Chapter 4

. Chapter 4

He was a tall man, taller even than Myles's father. He had a thin

face, deep-set bushy eyebrows, and a hawk nose. His upper lip was clean

shaven, but from his chin a flowing beard of iron-gray hung nearly to

his waist. He was clad in a riding-gown of black velvet that hung a

little lower than the knee, trimmed with otter fur and embroidered with

silver goshawks--the crest of the family of Beaumont.

A light shirt of link mail showed beneath the gown as he walked, and a

pair of soft undressed leather riding-boots were laced as high as the

knee, protecting his scarlet hose from mud and dirt. Over his shoulders

he wore a collar of enamelled gold, from which hung a magnificent

jewelled pendant, and upon his fist he carried a beautiful Iceland

falcon.

As Myles stood staring, he suddenly heard Gascoyne's voice whisper in

his ear, “Yon is my Lord; go forward and give him thy letter.”

Scarcely knowing what he did, he walked towards the Earl like a machine,

his heart pounding within him and a great humming in his ears. As he

drew near, the nobleman stopped for a moment and stared at him, and

Myles, as in a dream, kneeled, and presented the letter. The Earl took

it in his hand, turned it this way and that, looked first at the bearer,

then at the packet, and then at the bearer again.

“Who art thou?” said he; “and what is the matter thou wouldst have of

me?”

“I am Myles Falworth,” said the lad, in a low voice; “and I come seeking

service with you.”

The Earl drew his thick eyebrows quickly together, and shot a keen

look at the lad. “Falworth?” said he, sharply--“Falworth? I know no

Falworth!”

“The letter will tell you,” said Myles. “It is from one once dear to

you.”

The Earl took the letter, and handing it to a gentleman who stood near,

bade him break the seal. “Thou mayst stand,” said he to Myles; “needst

not kneel there forever.” Then, taking the opened parchment again, he

glanced first at the face and then at the back, and, seeing its length,

looked vexed. Then he read for an earnest moment or two, skipping from

line to line. Presently he folded the letter and thrust it into the

pouch at his side. “So it is, your Grace,” said he to the lordly

prelate, “that we who have luck to rise in the world must ever suffer by

being plagued at all times and seasons. Here is one I chanced to know a

dozen years ago, who thinks he hath a claim upon me, and saddles me

with his son. I must e'en take the lad, too, for the sake of peace and

quietness.” He glanced around, and seeing Gascoyne, who had drawn near,

beckoned to him. “Take me this fellow,” said he, “to the buttery, and

see him fed; and then to Sir James Lee, and have his name entered in the

castle books. And stay, sirrah,” he added; “bid me Sir James, if it may

be so done, to enter him as a squire-at-arms. Methinks he will be better

serving so than in the household, for he appeareth a soothly rough cub

for a page.”

Myles did look rustic enough, standing clad in frieze in the midst of

that gay company, and a murmur of laughter sounded around, though he

was too bewildered to fully understand that he was the cause of the

merriment. Then some hand drew him back--it was Gascoyne's--there was a

bustle of people passing, and the next minute they were gone, and

Myles and old Diccon Bowman and the young squire were left alone in the

anteroom.

Gascoyne looked very sour and put out. “Murrain upon it!” said he; “here

is good sport spoiled for me to see thee fed. I wish no ill to thee,

friend, but I would thou hadst come this afternoon or to-morrow.”

“Methinks I bring trouble and dole to every one,” said Myles, somewhat

bitterly. “It would have been better had I never come to this place,

methinks.”

His words and tone softened Gascoyne a little. “Ne'er mind,” said the

squire; “it was not thy fault, and is past mending now. So come and fill

thy stomach, in Heaven's name.”

Perhaps not the least hard part of the whole trying day for Myles

was his parting with Diccon. Gascoyne and he had accompanied the old

retainer to the outer gate, in the archway of which they now stood; for

without a permit they could go no farther. The old bowman led by the

bridle-rein the horse upon which Myles had ridden that morning. His own

nag, a vicious brute, was restive to be gone, but Diccon held him in

with tight rein. He reached down, and took Myles's sturdy brown hand in

his crooked, knotted grasp.

“Farewell, young master,” he croaked, tremulously, with a watery glimmer

in his pale eyes. “Thou wilt not forget me when I am gone?”

“Nay,” said Myles; “I will not forget thee.”

“Aye, aye,” said the old man, looking down at him, and shaking his head

slowly from side to side; “thou art a great tall sturdy fellow now, yet

have I held thee on my knee many and many's the time, and dandled thee

when thou wert only a little weeny babe. Be still, thou devil's limb!”

he suddenly broke off, reining back his restive raw-boned steed,

which began again to caper and prance. Myles was not sorry for the

interruption; he felt awkward and abashed at the parting, and at the old

man's reminiscences, knowing that Gascoyne's eyes were resting amusedly

upon the scene, and that the men-at-arms were looking on. Certainly

old Diccon did look droll as he struggled vainly with his vicious

high-necked nag. “Nay, a murrain on thee! an' thou wilt go, go!” cried

he at last, with a savage dig of his heels into the animal's ribs,

and away they clattered, the led-horse kicking up its heels as a final

parting, setting Gascoyne fairly alaughing. At the bend of the road the

old man turned and nodded his head; the next moment he had disappeared

around the angle of the wall, and it seemed to Myles, as he stood

looking after him, as though the last thread that bound him to his

old life had snapped and broken. As he turned he saw that Gascoyne was

looking at him.

“Dost feel downhearted?” said the young squire, curiously.

“Nay,” said Myles, brusquely. Nevertheless his throat was tight and dry,

and the word came huskily in spite of himself.