laugh again and his tawny eye sparkled.

At the University there were temptations enough to lead youth to folly,
even when it was not such youth as his, and therefore a shining mark.
The seed Charles Stuart had sown had flourished and grown rank and
strong, so that the great seat of learning was rich with dissolute
young fools and madcaps and their hangers-on. But even the most foolish
swaggerer of them could not call milksop a man who could outride,
outleap, outfence, outhunt him; who could drive the four horses of his
coach to London and back at such a pace and in such a manner as made
purple-faced old stage-coach drivers shake their heads with glee, and
who, in a wrestling-match, could break a man's back at a throw if he
chose to be unmerciful. Besides this, he was popular for a score of
reasons, being no sanctimonious preacher of his doctrines, but as
joyous a liver as any among them and as open-handed and high of spirit.

"'Tis not for me to say how other men should live," was his simple and
straightforward creed. "I live as I like best and find best pays me.
'Tis for others to seek out and follow what best pays themselves."

Many a story was told of him which his fellows liked, youth always
being elated by any deed of prowess and daring in youth. One of these
stories, which was indeed no great one, but picturesque and pretty,
took their fancy greatly, and was much related and laughed gaily over,
and indeed beloved.

He was a strong and wondrous swimmer, having learned the art in his
childhood on the seacoast, being taught by his Grace his father. When
at Oxford it was his custom to rise before the rest of the world, and
in any weather or season plunge into the river and swim and dive and