construction. By his bedhead hung his sword, his most valued and most
valuable possession. It was one which had escaped the dispersion of the
ancients; it had been ancient even in their days, and of far better work
than they themselves produced.

Broad, long, straight, and well-balanced, it appeared capable of cutting
through helmet and mail, when wielded by Oliver's sturdy arm. Such a
sword could not have been purchased for money; money, indeed, had often
been offered for it in vain; persuasion, and even covert threats from
those higher in authority who coveted it, were alike wasted. The sword
had been in the family for generations, and when the Baron grew too old,
or rather when he turned away from active life, the second son claimed
it as the fittest to use it. The claim was tacitly allowed; at all
events, he had it, and meant to keep it.

In a corner stood his lance, long and sharp, for use on horse-back, and
by it his saddle and accoutrements. The helmet and the shirt of mail,
the iron greaves and spurs, the short iron mace to bang at the
saddle-bow, spoke of the knight, the man of horses and war.

Oliver's whole delight was in exercise and sport. The boldest rider, the
best swimmer, the best at leaping, at hurling the dart or the heavy
hammer, ever ready for tilt or tournament, his whole life was spent with
horse, sword, and lance. A year younger than Felix, he was at least ten
years physically older. He measured several inches more round the chest;
his massive shoulders and immense arms, brown and hairy, his powerful
limbs, tower-like neck, and somewhat square jaw were the natural
concomitants of enormous physical strength.

All the blood and bone and thew and sinew of the house seemed to have