"It is long since there was a peaceful crowning in fair England,"
observed De Lacy, "and I shall be glad indeed to see the pomp."

"It may not equal the splendors you have seen in France," remarked
Dacre, "but there will be a goodly show nevertheless; something rather
brighter than Yorkshire hills or Scottish heather."

"I have no quarrel with the heather," replied De Wilton, "but the hills
are . . . well, not--so soft as the cheeks and eyes of the dames of the
Court."

"In sooth," said De Lacy, "I am with you in that. To me a pretty face
was ever more attractive than a granite crag."

"Both are handy in their places," said Dacre with a shrug. "Yet,
Pasque Dieu! of the two it were not hard to choose the trustier."

"Go to!" exclaimed De Wilton; "it was not a gallant speech. You will
have to mend your mind in London."

"Nay, Sir Ralph, my words, perhaps, but scarce my mind."

"It is the same thing there," De Wilton laughed.

At that moment the Master of Horse suddenly left the Duke and turned
toward the stables.

"Busk yourselves for the road, fair sirs," he called, as he passed.
"We march after matins to-morrow."