Another murmur of indignation went round; but there was no time for
further talk, as at that moment the three boys entered from the
tilt yard; hot, thirsty, and breathless, and the fair-haired lad
with the dreamy blue eyes held a kerchief to his head that was
stained with blood.

"Art hurt, Edred?" asked the mother, looking up.

"'Tis but a scratch," answered the boy. "I am not quite a match for
Bertram yet; but I will be anon. I must learn to be quicker in my
defence. Thanks, gentle mother; belike it will be better for it to
be bound up. It bleeds rather too fast for comfort, but thy hands
will soon stop that."

The other boys fell upon the fruit with right good will, whilst the
mother led her second son to the small pump nigh at hand, and
bathed and dressed the rather ugly wound in his head.

Neither mother nor son thought anything of the hurt. It was easy
enough to give and receive hard blows in the tilt yard, and bruises
and cuts were looked upon as part of the discipline of life.

As soon as the dressing was over, Edred joined his brothers, and
did his share in diminishing the pile of luscious fruit. And as
they ate they chattered away to the old woman of their prowess in
tilt yard and forest, relating how Bertram had slain a fat buck
with his own hands the previous day, and how they had between them
given the coup-de-grace to another, which had been brought to bay
at the water, father and huntsmen standing aloof to let the boys
show their strength and skill.