til the hour for action had
come.

Nigel had received word from Chandos to join him at "The Sign of the
Broom-Pod" in Winchelsea. Three days beforehand he and Aylward rode from
Tilford all armed and ready for the wars. Nigel was in hunting-costume,
blithe and gay, with his precious armor and his small baggage trussed
upon the back of a spare horse which Aylward led by the bridle. The
archer had himself a good black mare, heavy and slow, but strong enough
to be fit to carry his powerful frame. In his brigandine of chain mail
and his steel cap, with straight strong sword by his side, his yellow
long-bow jutting over his shoulder, and his quiver of arrows supported
by a scarlet baldric, he was such a warrior as any knight might well
be proud to have in his train. All Tilford trailed behind them, as they
rode slowly over the long slope of heath land which skirts the flank of
Crooksbury Hill.

At the summit of the rise Nigel reined in Pommers and looked back at the
little village behind him. There was the old dark manor house, with one
bent figure leaning upon a stick and gazing dimly after him from beside
the door. He looked at the high-pitched roof, the timbered walls, the
long trail of swirling blue smoke which rose from the single chimney,
and the group of downcast old servants who lingered at the gate, John
the cook, Weathercote the minstrel, and Red Swire the broken soldier.
Over the river amid the trees he could see the grim, gray tower of
Waverley, and even as he looked, the iron bell, which had so often
seemed to be the hoarse threatening cry of an enemy, clanged out its
call to prayer. Nigel doffed his velvet cap and prayed also--prayed that
peace might remain at home, and good warfare, in which honor and fame
should await him, might still be found abroad. Then, waving his hand
to the people, he turned his horse's head and rode slowly eastward. A
moment later Aylward broke from the group of archers and laughing girls
who clung to his bridle and his stirrup straps, and rode on, blowing
kisses over his shoulder. So at last the two comrades, gentle and
simple, were fairly started on their venture.

There are two seasons of color in those parts: the yellow, when the
country-side is flaming with the gorse-blossoms, and the crimson, when
all the long slopes are smoldering with the heather. So it was now.
Nigel looked back from time to time, as he rode along the narrow track
where the ferns and the ling brushed his fee