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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"Sir Nigel"

Chandos had stepped from the open door
of the corner turret and stood looking at them with a harsh gaze.
Presently, as the matter was made clear to him his face relaxed
into a smile.
"Hasten to the warden, archer, and tell him how it befell. You
will have the castle and the town in arms. I know not what the
King may think of so sudden an alarm. And you, Nigel, how in the
name of the saints came you to play the child like this?"
"I knew not its power, fair lord."
"By my soul, Nigel, I think that none of us know its power. I can
see the day when all that we delight in, the splendor and glory of
war, may all go down before that which beats through the plate of
steel as easily as the leathern jacket. I have bestrode my
warhorse in my armor and have looked down at the sooty, smoky
bombardman beside me, and I have thought that perhaps I was the
last of the old and he the first of the new; that there would come
a time when he and his engines would sweep you and me and the rest
of us from the field."
"But not yet, I trust, honored sir?"
"No, not yet, Nigel. You are still in time to win your spurs even
as your fathers did. How is your strength?"
"I am ready for any task, my good and honored lord."
"It is well, for work awaits us--good work, pressing work, work
of peril and of honor. Your eyes shine and your face flushes,
Nigel.


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