They paused,
however, at the bridge, and, leaning their elbows upon the
stonework, they stood looking down at their own faces in the
glassy stream, and at the swift flash of speckled trout against
the tawny gravel.
Sir Nigel was a slight man of poor stature, with soft lisping
voice and gentle ways. So short was he that his wife, who was no
very tall woman, had the better of him by the breadth of three
fingers. His sight having been injured in his early wars by a
basketful of lime which had been emptied over him when he led the
Earl of Derby's stormers up the breach at Bergerac, he had
contracted something of a stoop, with a blinking, peering
expression of face. His age was six and forty, but the constant
practice of arms, together with a cleanly life, had preserved
his activity and endurance unimpaired, so that from a distance he
seemed to have the slight limbs and swift grace of a boy. His
face, however, was tanned of a dull yellow tint, with a leathery,
poreless look, which spoke of rough outdoor doings, and the
little pointed beard which he wore, in deference to the
prevailing fashion, was streaked and shot with gray.
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