Chandos was to ride on to Farnham Castle and beyond, but he
expressed his desire to have a warm bath ere he left Tilford, for
like most of his fellow-knights, he was much addicted to simmering
in the hottest water that he could possibly endure. The bath
therefore, a high hooped arrangement like a broader but shorter
churn, was carried into the privacy of the guest-chamber, and
thither it was that Nigel was summoned to hold him company while
he stewed and sweltered in his tub.

Nigel perched himself upon the side of the high bed, swinging his
legs over the edge and gazing with wonder and amusement at the
quaint face, the ruffled yellow hair, and the sinewy shoulders of
the famous warrior, dimly seen amid a pillar of steam. He was in
a mood for talk; so Nigel with eager lips plied him with a
thousand questions about the wars, hanging upon every word which
came back to him, like those of the ancient oracles, out of the
mist and the cloud. To Chandos himself, the old soldier for whom
war had lost its freshness, it was a renewal of his own ardent
youth to listen to Nigel's rapid questions and to mark the rapt
attention with which he listened.

"Tell me of the Welsh, honored sir," asked the Squire. "What
manner of soldiers are the Welsh?"

"They are very valiant men of war," said Chandos, splashing about
in his tub. "There is good skirmishing to be had in their valleys
if you ride with a small following. They flare up like a
furzebush in the flames, but if for a short space you may abide
the heat of it, then there is a chance that it may be cooler."