the resort of many travellers from the south,
often of nobles and knights riding to Parliament, and thus the brothers
found themselves accommodated with a chamber, where they could prepare
for the meal, while Ambrose tried to console his brother by representing
that, after all, poor Spring had died gallantly, and with far less pain
than if he had suffered a wasting old age, besides being honoured for
ever by his effigy in Saint Faith's, wherever that might be, the idea
which chiefly contributed to console his master.

The two boys appeared in the room of the inn looking so unlike the
dusty, blood-stained pair who had entered, that Master Headley took a
second glance to convince himself that they were the same, before
beckoning them to seats on either side of him, saying that he must know
more of them, and bidding the host load their trenchers well from the
grand fabric of beef-pasty which had been set at the end of the board.
The runaways, four or five in number, herded together lower down, with a
few travellers of lower degree, all except the youth who had been
boasting before their arrival, and who retained his seat at the board,
thumping it with the handle of his knife to show his impatience for the
commencement of supper; and not far off sat Tibble, the same who had
hailed their arrival, a thin, slight, one-sided looking person, with a
terrible red withered scar on one cheek, drawing the corner of his mouth
awry. He, like Master Headley himself, and the rest of his party were
clad in red, guarded with white, and wore the cross of Saint George on
the white border of their flat crimson caps, being no doubt in the
livery of their Company. The citizen himself, having in the meantime
drawn his conclusions from the air and gestures of the brothers, and
their mode of dealing with their food, asked the usual question in an
affirmative tone, "Ye be of gentle blood, young sirs?"

To which they replied by giving their names, and explaining that they
were journeying from the New Forest to find their uncle in the train of
the Archbishop of York.

"Birkenholt," said Tibble, meditatively. "He beareth vert, a buck's
head proper, on a chief argent, two arrows in saltire. Crest, a buck
courant, pierced in the gorge by an arrow, all proper."

To which the brothers returned by displaying the handles of their
knives, both of which bore the pierced and courant buck.

"Ay, ay," said the man. "'Twill be found in our books, sir. W