t, his rightful name, he
shall therefore be designated in these pages--the Lord Montagu smiled
graciously at this remark, and a murmur through the crowd announced that
the competition for the silver arrow was about to commence. The butts,
formed of turf, with a small white mark fastened to the centre by a
very minute peg, were placed apart, one at each end, at the distance of
eleven score yards. At the extremity where the shooting commenced, the
crowd assembled, taking care to keep clear from the opposite butt,
as the warning word of "Fast" was thundered forth; but eager was the
general murmur, and many were the wagers given and accepted, as some
well-known archer tried his chance. Near the butt that now formed the
target, stood the marker with his white wand; and the rapidity with
which archer after archer discharged his shaft, and then, if it missed,
hurried across the ground to pick it up (for arrows were dear enough not
to be lightly lost), amidst the jeers and laughter of the bystanders,
was highly animated and diverting. As yet, however, no marksman had hit
the white, though many had gone close to it, when Nicholas Alwyn stepped
forward; and there was something so unwarlike in his whole air, so prim
in his gait, so careful in his deliberate survey of the shaft and his
precise adjustment of the leathern gauntlet that protected the arm from
the painful twang of the string, that a general burst of laughter from
the bystanders attested their anticipation of a signal failure.

"'Fore Heaven!" said Montagu, "he handles his bow an' it were a
yard-measure. One would think he were about to bargain for the
bow-string, he eyes it so closely."

"And now," said Nicholas, slowly adjusting the arrow, "a shot for the
honour of old Westmoreland!" And as he spoke, the arrow sprang gallantly
forth, and quivered in the very heart of the white. There was a general
movement of surprise among the spectators, as the marker thrice shook
his wand over his head. But Alwyn, as indifferent to their respect as
he had been to their ridicule, turned round and said, with a significant
glance at the silent nobles, "We springals of London can take care of
our own, if need be."

"These fellows wax insolent. Our good king spoils them," said Montagu,
with a curl of his lip. "I wish some young squire of gentle blood would
not disdain a shot for the Nevile against the craftsman. How say you,
fair sir?" And with a princely courtesy of mien and smile, L