Roxholm was but eleven years old when in taking a barred gate on a new
horse the animal leapt imperfectly and, falling upon his rider, broke a
leg and two ribs for him. The injuries were such as all knew must give
the boy sharp anguish of body, when he was placed upon a hurdle and
carried home. His father galloped to the Tower to break the news to her
Grace and prepare her for his coming. My Lord Dunstanwolde walked by
the hurdle side, and as he did so, watching the boy closely, he was
touched to see that though his beautiful young face was white as death
and he lay with closed eyes, he uttered no sound and his lips wore a
brave smile.

"Is your pain great, Roxholm?" my Lord asked with tender sympathy.

Roxholm opened his eyes and, still smiling, blushed faintly.

"I think of John Cuthbert de Mertoun," he said in a low voice. "It aids
me to hold the torment at bay."

He spoke the words with some shyness, as if feeling that one older than
himself might smile at the romantic wildness of his fancy. But this my
Lord Dunstanwolde did not, understanding him full well, and lying a
hand on his pressed it with warm affection. The story of John Cuthbert
was, that a hound suddenly going mad one day while he hunted deep in
the forest, it had attacked a poor follower and would have torn his
throat had his lord not come to his rescue, pulling the beast from him
and drawing its fury upon himself, whereby in his battle with it he was
horribly bitten; and when the animal lay dead upon the sward he drew
his hunting-knife and cut out the mangled flesh with his own hand, "and
winced not nor swouned," as the chronicle recorded with open joy in
him.