save the taciturn old man; hating the English, for
that he was taught as thoroughly as swordsmanship; speaking French
fluently and English poorly--and waiting impatiently for the day when
the old man should send him out into the world with clanking armor and
lance and shield to do battle with the knights of England.

It was about this time that there occurred the first important break in
the monotony of his existence. Far down the rocky trail that led from
the valley below through the Derby hills to the ruined castle, three
armored knights urged their tired horses late one afternoon of a chill
autumn day. Off the main road and far from any habitation, they had
espied the castle's towers through a rift in the hills, and now they
spurred toward it in search of food and shelter.

As the road led them winding higher into the hills, they suddenly
emerged upon the downs below the castle where a sight met their eyes
which caused them to draw rein and watch in admiration. There, before
them upon the downs, a boy battled with a lunging, rearing horse--a
perfect demon of a black horse. Striking and biting in a frenzy of
rage, it sought ever to escape or injure the lithe figure which clung
leech-like to its shoulder.

The boy was on the ground. His left hand grasped the heavy mane;
his right arm lay across the beast's withers and his right hand drew
steadily in upon a halter rope with which he had taken a half hitch
about the horse's muzzle. Now the black reared and wheeled, striking
and biting, full upon the youth, but the active figure swung with
him--always just behind the giant shoulder--and ever and ever he drew
the great arched neck farther and farther to the right.

As the animal plunged hither and thither in great leaps, he dragged the
boy with him, but all his mighty efforts were unavailing to loosen the
grip upon mane and withers. Suddenly, he reared straight into the air
carrying the youth with him, then with a vicious lunge he threw himself
backward upon the ground.

"It's death!" exclaimed one of the knights, "he will kill the youth yet,
Beauchamp."

"No!" cried he addressed. "Look! He is up again and the boy still clings
as tightly to him as his own black hide."

"'Tis true," exclaimed another, "but he hath lost what he had gained
upon the halter--he must needs fight it all out again from the
beginning."

And so the battle went on again as before, the boy again drawing the
iron neck slowly to the right--the