his left came a babble of tongues, while two or three gentlemen with
pots in their hands saluted him from the passage door, telling him that
Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert was within. Mr. Fenton was one of these, come
over from North Lees, where he had his manor, a brisk, middle-aged man,
dressed soberly and well, with a pointed beard and pleasant, dancing
eyes.

"And Mr. John, too, came last night," he said; "but he will not hawk
with us. He is ridden from London on private matters."

It was an exceedingly gay sight on which Robin looked as he turned into
the hall. It was a low room, ceiled in oak and wainscoted half-way up, a
trifle dark, since it was lighted only by one or two little windows on
either side, yet warm and hospitable looking; with a great fire burning
in a chimney on the south side, and perhaps a dozen and a half persons
sitting over their food and drink, since they were dining early to-day
to have the longer time for sport.

A voice hailed him as he came in; and he went up to pay his respects to
Mr. John FitzHerbert, a tall man, well past middle-age, who sat with his
hat on his head, at the centre of the high table, with the arms of Eyre
and FitzHerbert beneath the canopy, all emblazoned, to do the honours
of the day.

"You are late, sir, you are late!" he cried out genially. "We are just
done."

Robin saluted him. He liked this man, though he did not know him very
well; for he was continually about the country, now in London, now at
Norbury, now at Swinnerton, always occupied with these endless matters