He
was of small stature, but his frame was singularly elegant and
graceful. His face, though tanned with the weather, was delicate
in features and most eager and alert in expression. A thick
fringe of crisp yellow curls broke from under the dark flat cap
which he was wearing, and a short golden beard hid the outline of
his strong square chin. One white osprey feather thrust through a
gold brooch in the front of his cap gave a touch of grace to his
somber garb. This and other points of his attire, the short
hanging mantle, the leather-sheathed hunting-knife, the cross belt
which sustained a brazen horn, the soft doe-skin boots and the
prick spurs, would all disclose themselves to an observer; but at
the first glance the brown face set in gold and the dancing light
of the quick, reckless, laughing eyes, were the one strong memory
left behind.
Such was the youth who, cracking his whip joyously, and followed
by half a score of dogs, cantered on his rude pony down the
Tilford Lane, and thence it was that with a smile of amused
contempt upon his face he observed the comedy in the field and the
impotent efforts of the servants of Waverley.
Suddenly, however, as the comedy turned swiftly to black tragedy,
this passive spectator leaped into quick strenuous life. With a
spring he was off his pony, and with another he was over the stone
wall and flying swiftly across the field.
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