odfrey would say. And the gentry
welcomed the young man, while the tenants bobbed him respectful
salutations.

"You're one of us. Glad to know you," said Sir Thomas de Brie,
surveying the lad with approval.

Lady Jumping Jack held his hand for a vanishing moment you could
hardly make sure of. "I had made up my mind to hate you for robbing me
of my dearest girl," she said, smiling gayly, and fixing him with her
odd-looking eyes. "But I see we're to be friends." Then she murmured a
choice nothing to the Baron, who snarled politely.

"Don't let her play you," said he to Geoffrey when the lady had moved
on. And he tapped the youth's shoulder familiarly.

"Oh, I've been through all that sort of thing over in Poictiers,"
Geoffrey answered with indifference.

"You're a rogue, sir, as I've told you before. Ha! Uncle Mortmain, how
d'ye do? Yes, this is Geoffrey. Where's my boy Roland? Coming, is he?
Well, he had better look sharp. It's after eleven, and I'll wait for
nobody. How d'ye do, John Stiles? That bull you sold me 's costing
thirty shillings a year in fences. You'll find something ready down by
those tables, I think."

Hark to that roar! The crowd jostled together in the court-yard, for
it sounded terribly close.

"The Dragon's quite safe in the pit, good people," shouted Sir
Godfrey. "A few more minutes and you'll all see him."

The old gentleman continued welcoming the new arrivals, chatting
heartily, with a joke for this one and a kind inquiry for the other.
But wretched Geoffrey! So the Dragon was to be seen in a few minutes!
And where were the monks of Oyster-le-Main? Still, a bold face must be
kept. He was thankful that Elaine, after the custom of brides, was
invisible. The youth's left hand rested upon the hilt of his sword; he
was in rich attire, and the curly hair that surrounded his forehead
had been carefully groomed. Half-way up the stone steps as he stood,
his blue eyes watching keenly for the monks, he was a figure that made
many a humble nymph turn tender glances upon him. Old Piers, the
ploughman, remained beside a barrel of running ale and drank his
health all day. For he was a wonderful old man.

Hither and thither the domestics scurried swiftly, making
preparations. Some were cooking rare pasties of grouse and ptarmigan,
goslings and dough-birds; some were setting great tables in-doors and
out; and some were piling fagots for the Dragon's funeral pyre.
Popham, with magnificent solemnity and