Such was the Tilford Manor-house where the last survivors of the
old and magnificent house of Loring still struggled hard to keep a
footing and to hold off the monks and the lawyers from the few
acres which were left to them. The mansion was a two-storied one,
framed in heavy beams of wood, the interstices filled with rude
blocks of stone. An outside staircase led up to several
sleeping-rooms above. Below there were only two apartments, the
smaller of which was the bower of the aged Lady Ermyntrude. The
other was the hall, a very large room, which served as the living
room of the family and as the common dining-room of themselves and
of their little group of servants and retainers. The dwellings of
these servants, the kitchens, the offices and the stables were all
represented by a row of penthouses and sheds behind the main
building. Here lived Charles the page, Peter the old falconer,
Red Swire who had followed Nigel's grandfather to the Scottish
wars, Weathercote the broken minstrel, John the cook, and other
survivors of more prosperous days, who still clung to the old
house as the barnacles to some wrecked and stranded vessel.

One evening about a week after the breaking of the yellow horse,
Nigel and his grandmother sat on either side of the large empty
fireplace in this spacious apartment. The supper had been
removed, and so had the trestle tables upon which it had been
served, so that the room seemed bare and empty. The stone floor
was strewed with a thick layer of green rushes, which was swept
out every Saturday and carried with it all the dirt and debris of
the week. Several dogs were now crouched among these rushes,
gnawing and cracking the bones which had been thrown from the
table. A long wooden buffet loaded with plates and dishes filled
one end of the room, but there was little other furniture save