horn was blown thrice a day; at six in the morning, as a signal that the
day had begun, at noon as a signal for dinner, at six in the afternoon
as a signal that the day (except in harvest-time) was over. The watchmen
went their round about the enclosure all night long, relieved every
three hours, armed with spears, and attended by mastiffs. By day one
sufficed, and his station was then usually (though not always) on the
highest part of the roof.

The horn re-awoke Felix; it was the note by which he had been accustomed
to rise for years. He threw open the oaken shutters, and the sunlight
and the fresh breeze of the May morning came freely into the room. There
was now the buzz of voices without, men unloading the wool, men at the
workshops and in the granaries, and others waiting at the door of the
steward's store for the tools, which he handed out to them. Iron being
so scarce, tools were a temptation, and were carefully locked up each
night, and given out again in the morning.

Felix went to the ivory cross and kissed it in affectionate recollection
of Aurora, and then looked towards the open window, in the pride and joy
of youth turning to the East, the morning, and the light. Before he had
half dressed there came a knock and then an impatient kick at the door.
He unbarred it, and his brother Oliver entered. Oliver had been for his
swim in the river. He excelled in swimming, as, indeed, in every manly
exercise, being as active and energetic as Felix was outwardly languid.

His room was only across the landing, his door just opposite. It also
was strewn with implements and weapons. But there was a far greater
number of tools; he was an expert and artistic workman, and his table
and his seat, unlike the rude blocks in Felix's room, were tastefully
carved. His seat, too, had a back, and he had even a couch of his own