"Then you shall do it to-morrow morning, good father, for I will
come and see you then. But indeed I did not do more at Waverley
than you would have done yourself. Look me in the eye, old
hothead, and tell me if you would have stood by while the last
Loring--look at him as he rides with his head in the air and his
soul in the clouds--was shot down before your very eyes at the
bidding of that fat monk! If you would, then I disown you as my
father."

"Nay, Samkin, if it was like that, then perhaps what you did was
not so far amiss. But it is hard to lose the old farm when my
heart is buried deep in the good brown soil."

"Tut, man! there are three years to run, and what may not happen
in three years? Before that time I shall have gone to the wars,
and when I have opened a French strong box or two you can buy the
good brown soil and snap your fingers at Abbot John and his
bailiffs. Am I not as proper a man as Tom Withstaff of Churt?
And yet he came back after six months with his pockets full of
rose nobles and a French wench on either arm."

"God preserve us from the wenches, Samkin! But indeed I think
that if there is money to be gathered you are as likely to get
your fist full as any man who goes to the war. But hasten, lad,
hasten! Already your young master is over the brow."

Thus admonished, the archer waved his gauntleted hand to his
father, and digging his heels into the sides of his little pony
soon drew up with the Squire. Nigel glanced over his shoulder and