Nigel
was in hunting-costume, blithe and gay, with his precious armor
and his small baggage trussed upon the back of a spare horse which
Aylward led by the bridle. The archer had himself a good black
mare, heavy and slow, but strong enough to be fit to carry his
powerful frame. In his brigandine of chain mail and his steel
cap, with straight strong sword by his side, his yellow long-bow
jutting over his shoulder, and his quiver of arrows supported by a
scarlet baldric, he was such a warrior as any knight might well be
proud to have in his train. All Tilford trailed behind them, as
they rode slowly over the long slope of heath land which skirts
the flank of Crooksbury Hill.
At the summit of the rise Nigel reined in Pommers and looked back
at the little village behind him. There was the old dark manor
house, with one bent figure leaning upon a stick and gazing dimly
after him from beside the door. He looked at the high-pitched
roof, the timbered walls, the long trail of swirling blue smoke
which rose from the single chimney, and the group of downcast old
servants who lingered at the gate, John the cook, Weathercote the
minstrel, and Red Swire the broken soldier. Over the river amid
the trees he could see the grim, gray tower of Waverley, and even
as he looked, the iron bell, which had so often seemed to be the
hoarse threatening cry of an enemy, clanged out its call to
prayer.
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