see
by my rusty spur and miry boot that I have walked far. Here," I cried,
pulling off my boots, and flinging them down on the rushes of the floor,
"bid one of your varlets clean them! Next, breakfast, and a pot of your
ale; and then I shall see what manner of horses you keep, for I must
needs ride to Winchelsea."

"You would join the men under the banner of Sir Thomas Grey of Falloden,
I make no doubt?" he answered. "Your speech smacks of the Northern
parts, and the good knight comes from no long way south of the border.
His men rode through our town but few days agone."

"And me they left behind on the way," I answered, "so evil is my luck in
horse-flesh. But for this blessed wind out of the east that hinders
them, my honour were undone."

My tale was not too hard of belief, and before noon I was on my way to
Winchelsea, a stout nag enough between my legs.

The first man-at-arms whom I met I hailed, bidding him lead me straight
to Sir Thomas Grey of Falloden. "What, you would take service?" he
asked, in a Cumberland burr that I knew well, for indeed it came ready
enough on my own tongue.

"Yea, by St. Cuthbert," I answered, "for on the Marches nothing stirs;
moreover, I have slain a man, and fled my own country."

With that he bade God damn his soul if I were not a good fellow, and so
led me straight to the lodgings of the knight under whose colours he
served. To him I told the same tale, adding that I had heard late of his
levying of his men, otherwise I had ridden to join him at his setting
forth.

"You have seen war?" he asked.

"Only a Warden's raid or twain, on the moss-trooping Scots of Liddesdale.
Branxholme I have seen in a blaze, and have faced fire at the Castle of
the Hermitage."

"You speak the tongue of the Northern parts," he said; "are you noble?"

"A poor cousin of the Storeys of Netherby," I answered, which was true
enough; and when he questioned me about my kin, I showed him that I knew
every name and scutcheon of the line, my mother having instructed me in
all such lore of her family. {38}

"And wherefore come you here alone, and in such plight?"

"By reason of a sword-stroke at Stainishawbank Fair," I answered boldly.

"Faith, then, I see no cause why, as your will is so good, you should not
soon have your bellyful of sword-strokes. For, when once we have burned
that limb of the devil, the Puzel" (for so the English call the Maid),
"we shall shortly drive these forsworn dogs