He was tall and straight as a lance, though of a great age, for
his hair, which curled from under his velvet cap of maintenance,
was as white as the new-fallen snow. Yet, from the swing of his
stride and the spring of his step, it was clear that he had not
yet lost the fire and activity of his youth. His fierce
hawk-like face was clean shaven like that of a priest, save for a
long thin wisp of white moustache which drooped down half way to
his shoulder. That he had been handsome might be easily judged
from his high aquiline nose and clear-cut chin; but his features
had been so distorted by the seams and scars of old wounds, and
by the loss of one eye which had been torn from the socket, that
there was little left to remind one of the dashing young knight
who had been fifty years ago the fairest as well as the boldest
of the English chivalry. Yet what knight was there in that hall
of St. Andrew's who would not have gladly laid down youth, beauty,
and all that he possessed to win the fame of this man? For who
could be named with Chandos, the stainless knight, the wise
councillor, the valiant warrior, the hero of Crecy, of
Winchelsea, of Poictiers, of Auray, and of as many other battles
as there were years to his life?
"Ha, my little heart of gold!" he cried, darting forward suddenly
and throwing his arms round Sir Nigel.
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