last hope. Nay, good armorer, if you have indeed served and
loved my gallant father, then I beg you by his memory that you will help
me now."

The armorer threw down his heavy hammer with a crash upon the floor. "It
is not only that I loved your father, Squire Loring, but it is that I
have seen you, half armed as you were, ride against the best of them at
the Castle tiltyard. Last Martinmas my heart bled for you when I saw how
sorry was your harness, and yet you held your own against the stout Sir
Oliver with his Milan suit: When go you to Tilford?"

"Even now."

"Heh, Jenkin, fetch out the cob!" cried the worthy Wat. "May my right
hand lose its cunning if I do not send you into battle in your father's
suit! To-morrow I must be back in my booth, but to-day I give to you
without fee and for the sake of the good-will which I bear to your
house. I will ride with you to Tilford, and before night you shall see
what Wat can do."

So it came about that there was a busy evening at the old Tilford
Manor-house, where the Lady Ermyntrude planned and cut and hung the
curtains for the hall, and stocked her cupboards with the good things
which Nigel had brought from Guildford.

Meanwhile the Squire and the armorer sat with their heads touching and
the old suit of mail with its gorget of overlapping plates laid out
across their knees. Again and again old Wat shrugged his shoulders, as
one who has been asked to do more than can be demanded from mortal man.
At last, at a suggestion from the Squire, he leaned back in his
chair and laughed long and loudly in his bushy beard, while the Lady
Ermyntrude glared her black displeasure at such plebeian merriment.
Then taking his fine chisel and his hammer from his pouch of tools,
the armorer, still chuckling at his own thoughts, began to drive a hole
through the center of the steel tunic.

VIII. HOW THE KING HAWKED ON CROOKSBURY HEATH

The King and his attendants had shaken off the crowd who had followed
them from Guildford along the Pilgrims' Way and now, the mounted archers
having beaten off the more persistent of the spectators, they rode
at their ease in a long, straggling, glittering train over the dark
undulating plain of heather.

In the van was the King himself, for his hawks were with him and he had
some hope of sport. Edward at that time was a well-grown, vigorous man
in the very prime of his years, a keen sportsman, an ardent gallant
and a chivalrous soldier. He was