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He had ridden over to Poole, one November day, with his
fellow-squire, Peter Terlake, in quest of certain yew-staves from
Wat Swathling, the Dorsetshire armorer. The day for their
departure had almost come, and the two youths spurred it over the
lonely downs at the top of their speed on their homeward course,
for evening had fallen and there was much to be done. Peter was
a hard, wiry, brown faced, country-bred lad who looked on the
coming war as the schoolboy looks on his holidays. This day,
however, he had been sombre and mute, with scarce a word a mile
to bestow upon his comrade.
"Tell me Alleyne Edricson," he broke out, suddenly, as they
clattered along the winding track which leads over the
Bournemouth hills, "has it not seemed to you that of late the
Lady Maude is paler and more silent than is her wont?"
"It may be so," the other answered shortly.
"And would rather sit distrait by her oriel than ride gayly to
the chase as of old. Methinks, Alleyne, it is this learning
which you have taught her that has taken all the life and sap
from her.


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