It is a bright, crisp morning, and there is a gathering round the hall
door of Kerton Manor.

To the right is Sir Henry Fallowfield, already established on the broad
tack of his shooting pony, an invaluable animal, that can leap or creep
wherever a man can go, and steady under fire as old Copenhagen. The
baronet is very gouty. The whip made out of his favorite vices cuts him
up sharply at times, and he does not like it alluded to. I never saw him
look so savage at Guy as when the latter quoted, _"Raro antecedentem
scelestum Deseruit pede poena claudo."_ Of course, he can not walk
much; but, placed in a ride, or at the corner of a cover, he rolls over
the hares and pulls down the pheasants unerringly as ever; when you come
up, you will find him surrounded by a semicircle of slain, and not a
runner among them.

The battle of life has left its tokens on the face of the strong,
skillful Protagonist. The features, once so finely cut, are somewhat
full and bloated now; but it is a magnificent ruin, and there are traces
yet of "the handsomest man of his day." Very expressive are his glances
still; a little too much so, some people think, when he is criticising a
figure or a face; but, to do him justice, _gourmandise_ is his pet
weakness now, a comparatively harmless one; and a delicate _entremet_
will bring the light into his eyes that only war or love could do in the
old days.

By Sir Henry's side, encouraging him with great prophecies of sport,
stands Mallett, the head-keeper. What a contrast his fresh, honest face
makes with the veteran _roué's_! He is the elder of the two by a good
ten years, and there is scarcely a wrinkle on his ruddy cheeks and
smooth forehead. Wind and weather have used him with a rough kindness,