granted that he was no longer wanted, and fell back to his proper place
among the riders. The young squires received him with cordiality and
not without a certain respect for one who, though not even a knight,
had been so much honoured by their sovereign. And Gilbert himself,
though he felt at home amongst them at first, as a man feels with his
own kind, yet felt that he was divided from them by the depth of his
own misfortunes. One of them spoke of his home at Bayeux, and of his
father, and Gilbert's face grew grave; another told how his mother had
herself embroidered in gold the fine linen collar that showed above his
low-cut tunic. Gilbert bit his lips, and looked away at the rolling
green country. And one, again, asked Gilbert where his home might be.

"Here," answered Warde, striking the pommel of his saddle with his
right hand and laughing rather harshly.

He was older than most of them, for they ranged from fourteen to
eighteen years, and were chiefly beardless boys who had never seen
fight, whose fathers had fought Geoffrey Plantagenet until they had
recognized that he was the master, as the great Duke William had been
in his day, and then, being beaten, had submitted whole-heartedly and
all at once, as brave men do, and had forthwith sent their sons to
learn arms and manners at Geoffrey's court. So none of these youths had
slain a man with his own hand, as Gilbert had at Faringdon, nor had any
of them faced an enemy with plain steel in a quarrel, as Gilbert had
faced Sir Arnold de Curboil. Though Gilbert told little of his story
and less of his deeds, they saw that he was older than they, they felt
that he had seen more than they had, and they guessed that his hand was
harder and heavier than theirs.

As the day wore, and they rode, and halted, and dined together in the