The Armourer's Prentices. Yonge Charlotte Mary

hound.  Had but one of you had the heart of a sparrow, ye had not furnished a tale to be the laugh of the Barbican and Cheapside.  Look well at them.  How old be you, my brave lads?”

      “I shall be sixteen come Lammas day, and Stephen fifteen at Martinmas day, sir,” said Ambrose; “but verily we did nought.  We could have done nought had not the thieves thought more were behind us.”

      “There are odds between going forward and backward,” said Master Headley, dryly.  “Ha!  Art hurt?  Thou bleedst,” he exclaimed, laying his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, and drawing him to the light.

      “’Tis no blood of mine,” said Stephen, as Ambrose likewise came to join in the examination.  “It is my poor Spring’s.  He took the coward’s blow.  His was all the honour, and we have left him there on the heath!”  And he covered his face with his hands.

      “Come, come, my good child,” said Master Headley; “we will back to the place by times to-morrow when rogues hide and honest men walk abroad.  Thou shalt bury thine hound, as befits a good warrior, on the battle-field.  I would fain mark his points for the effigy we will frame, honest Tibble, for St. Julian.  And mark ye, fellows, thou godson Giles, above all, who ’tis that boast of their valour, and who ’tis that be modest of speech.  Yea, thanks, mine host.  Let us to a chamber, and give us water to wash away soil of travel and of fray, and then to supper.  Young masters, ye are my guests.  Shame were it that Giles Headley let go farther them that have, under Heaven and St. Julian, saved him in life, limb, and purse.”

      The inn was large, being the resort of many travellers from the south, often of nobles and knights riding to Parliament, and thus the brothers found themselves accommodated with a chamber, where they could prepare for the meal, while Ambrose tried to console his brother by representing that, after all, poor Spring had died gallantly, and with far less pain than if he had suffered a wasting old age, besides being honoured for ever by his effigy in St. Faith’s, wherever that might be, the idea which chiefly contributed to console his master.

      The two boys appeared in the room of the inn looking so unlike the dusty, blood-stained pair who had entered, that Master Headley took a second glance to convince himself that they were the same, before beckoning them to seats on either side of him, saying that he must know more of them, and bidding the host load their trenchers well from the grand fabric of beef-pasty which had been set at the end of the board.  The runaways, four or five in number, herded together lower down, with a few travellers of lower degree, all except the youth who had been boasting before their arrival, and who retained his seat at the board, thumping it with the handle of his knife to show his impatience for the commencement of supper; and not far off sat Tibble, the same who had hailed their arrival, a thin, slight, one-sided looking person, with a terrible red withered scar on one cheek, drawing the corner of his mouth awry.  He, like Master Headley himself, and the rest of his party were clad in red, guarded with white, and wore the cross of St. George on the white border of their flat crimson caps, being no doubt in the livery of their Company.  The citizen himself, having in the meantime drawn his conclusions from the air and gestures of the brothers, and their mode of dealing with their food, asked the usual question in an affirmative tone, “Ye be of gentle blood, young sirs?”

      To which they replied by giving their names, and explaining that they were journeying from the New Forest to find their uncle in the train of the Archbishop of York.

      “Birkenholt,” said Tibble, meditatively.  “He beareth vert, a buck’s head proper, on a chief argent, two arrows in saltire.  Crest, a buck courant, pierced in the gorge by an arrow, all proper.”

      To which the brothers returned by displaying the handles of their knives, both of which bore the pierced and courant buck.

      “Ay, ay,” said the man.  “’Twill be found in our books, sir.  We painted the shield and new-crested the morion the first year of my prenticeship, when the Earl of Richmond, the late King Harry of blessed memory, had newly landed at Milford Haven.”

      “Verily,” said Ambrose, “our uncle Richard Birkenholt fought at Bosworth under Sir Richard Pole’s banner.”

      “A tall and stalwart esquire, methinks,” said Master Headley.  “Is he the kinsman you seek?”

      “Not so, sir.  We visited him at Winchester, and found him sorely old and with failing wits.  We be on our way to our mother’s brother, Master Harry Randall.”

      “Is he clerk or layman?  My Lord of York entertaineth enow of both,” said Master Headley.

      “Lay assuredly, sir,” returned Stephen; “I trust to him to find me some preferment as page or the like.”

      “Know’st thou the man, Tibble?” inquired the master.

      “Not among the men-at-arms, sir,” was the answer; “but there be a many of them whose right names we never hear.  However, he will be easily found if my Lord of York be returned from Windsor with his train.”

      “Then will we go forward together, my young Masters Birkenholt.  I am not going to part with my doughty champions!”—patting Stephen’s shoulder.  “Ye’d not think that these light-heeled knaves belonged to the brave craft of armourers?”

      “Certainly not,” thought the lads, whose notion of armourers was derived from the brawny blacksmith of Lyndhurst, who sharpened their boar spears and shod their horses.  They made some kind of assent, and Master Headley went on.  “These be the times!  This is what peace hath brought us to!  I am called down to Salisbury to take charge of the goods, chattels, and estate of my kinsman, Robert Headley—Saints rest his soul!—and to bring home yonder spark, my godson, whose indentures have been made over to me.  And I may not ride a mile after sunset without being set upon by a sort of robbers, who must have guessed over-well what a pack of cowards they had to deal with.”

      “Sir,” cried the younger Giles, “I swear to you that I struck right and left.  I did all that man could do, but these rogues of serving-men, they fled, and dragged me along with them, and I deemed you were of our company till we dismounted.”

      “Did you so?  Methought anon you saw me go down with three pikes in my breast.  Come, come, godson Giles, speech will not mend it!  Thou art but a green, town-bred lad, a mother’s darling, and mayst be a brave man yet, only don’t dread to tell the honest truth that you were afeard, as many a better man might be.”

      The host chimed in with tales of the thieves and outlaws who then, and indeed for many later generations, infested Bagshot heath, and the wild moorland tracks around.  He seemed to think that the travellers had had a hair’s-breadth escape, and that a few seconds’ more delay might have revealed the weakness of the rescuers and have been fatal to them.

      However there was no danger so near the village in the morning, and, somewhat to Stephen’s annoyance, the whole place turned out to inspect the spot, and behold the burial of poor Spring, who was found stretched on the heather, just as he had been left the night before.  He was interred under the stunted oak where Master Headley had been tied.  While the grave was dug with a spade borrowed at the inn, Ambrose undertook to cut out the dog’s name on the bark, but he had hardly made the first incision when Tibble, the singed foreman, offered to do it for him, and made a much more sightly inscription than he could have done.  Master Headley’s sword was found honourably broken under the tree, and was reserved to form a base for his intended ex voto.  He uttered the vow in due form like a funeral oration, when Stephen, with a swelling heart, had laid the companion of his life in the little grave, which was speedily covered in.

      CHAPTER V

      THE DRAGON COURT

               “A citizen

         Of credit and renown;

      A trainband captain eke was he

         Of famous London town.”

Cowper.

      In spite of his satisfaction at the honourable obsequies of his dog, Stephen Birkenholt would fain have been independent, and thought it provoking and strange that every one should want to direct his movements,