enemies:

"Nay, chide not the boy, good Sir James; he does but speak as his
heart dictates, and I would indeed that my son might look forward
to the day when he and your gallant son might be companions in
arms. But I ask no pledge in these troublous, stormy days. Only I
will cherish the hope that when brighter days dawn for the House of
Lancaster, and her proud foes are forever subjugated to their right
position, this bold boy may appear again before us to receive at
our hands the guerdon he is too young for yet. And be sure that
never will knighthood be more gladly accorded to any than to him,
for the deed which saved England's heir and hope from the deadly
peril which menaced him but a few short hours ago."

Sir James and his son both bowed low, and the father prepared to
lead away the boy. But the prince had once more thrown his arms
round Paul's neck, and was speaking in his eager way:

"You and I will be knighted together when we are grown. I shall
think of you, and you will not forget me--promise that you will
not. And when we meet next, wherever it may be, we shall know each
other for the likeness we bear the one to the other. Kiss me, Paul,
and promise never to forget. Farewell now, but my heart tells me we
shall meet again."

The king's son and the knight's embraced with all the warmth of a
real and deep affection, albeit of only a few hours' growth, and
gazing at each other to the last they parted.

"I shall always wear the silver swan," Paul had said as their lips
met. "You will know me by that. And I--oh, I never could forget
you! Your face will live always in my heart."

The doors closed behind the retiring knight and his son. The vision
alone conjured up by the words of the prince lived in the heart of
Paul Stukely. His face was very brightly grave as he rode home
beside his father. How little he or any in that noble company
guessed where and under what circumstances the prince and Paul
would meet next!

Chapter 1: A Brush With The Robbers.

"Help--help--help!"

This cry, growing feebler at each repetition, was borne by the
evening breeze to the ears of a traveller who was picking his way
along the dark mazes of Epping Forest one cool, fresh October day.
Instinctively he drew rein and listened, laying his band
unconsciously upon the hilt of his poniard.

"A woman's voice," he said half aloud, as he spurred more rapidly
onward in the direction whence the cry proceeded. "A woman set
upo