very
bottom of the box she drew three objects, swathed in silken cloth, which
she uncovered and laid upon the table. The one was a bracelet of rough
gold studded with uncut rubies, the second was a gold salver, and the
third was a high goblet of the same metal.

"You have heard me speak of these, Nigel, but never before have you seen
them, for indeed I have not opened the hutch for fear that we might be
tempted in our great need to turn them into money. I have kept them out
of my sight and even out of my thoughts. But now it is the honor of the
house which calls, and even these must go. This goblet was that which my
husband, Sir Nele Loring, won after the intaking of Belgrade when he and
his comrades held the lists from matins to vespers against the flower of
the French chivalry. The salver was given him by the Earl of Pembroke in
memory of his valor upon the field of Falkirk."

"And the bracelet, dear lady?"

"You will not laugh, Nigel?"

"Nay, why should I laugh?"

"The bracelet was the prize for the Queen of Beauty which was given to
me before all the high-born ladies of England by Sir Nele Loring a month
before our marriage--the Queen of Beauty, Nigel--I, old and twisted, as
you see me. Five strong men went down before his lance ere he won that
trinket for me. And now in my last years--"

"Nay, dear and honored lady, we will not part with it."

"Yes, Nigel, he would have it so. I can hear his whisper in my ear.
Honor to him was everything--the rest nothing. Take it from me, Nigel,
ere my heart weakens. To-morrow you will ride with it to Guildford; you
will see Thorold the goldsmith; and you will raise enough money to pay
for all that we shall need for the King's coming." She turned her face
away to hide the quivering of her wrinkled features, and the crash of
the iron lid covered the sob which burst from her overwrought soul.

VII. HOW NIGEL WENT MARKETING TO GUILDFORD

It was on a bright June morning that young Nigel, with youth and
springtime to make his heart light, rode upon his errand from Tilford
to Guildford town. Beneath him was his great yellow warhorse, caracoling
and curveting as he went, as blithe and free of spirit as his master.
In all England one would scarce have found upon that morning so
high-mettled and so debonair a pair. The sandy road wound through groves
of fir, where the breeze came soft and fragrant with resinous gums, or
over heathery downs, which rolled away to north and