lance."

"Ah! Master Eustace, if you were but such as I have seen others
of your race," said Ralph, shaking his head. "There was Sir Henry
--at your age he had made the Scottish thieves look about them, I
promise you. And to go no further back than Sir Reginald himself--
he stood by the Prince's side at Crecy ere he was yet fifteen!"

"It is not my fault that I have not done as much, Ralph," said
Eustace. "It is not for want of the will, as you know full well."

"No. Thanks to me, I trust you have the will and the teaching, at
least, to make a good Knight," said Ralph. "And yet, while I think
of the goodly height and broad shoulders of those that have gone
before you--"

"But hark! hark!" cried Eustace, cutting short a comparison which did
not seem likely to be complimentary. "Dost not hear, Ralph? A horn!"

"The Lynwood note! My husband's note! O thanks, thanks to the
Saints!" cried the Lady, clasping her hands, whilst Eustace,
vaulting into the saddle behind his little nephew, rode across the
drawbridge as fast as the stiffened joints of old Blanc Etoile
could be prevailed on to move. Gaining the summit of a rising
ground, both at once shouted, "Our own pennon! It is himself!"
as they beheld the dark blue crosslet on an argent field floating
above a troop of horsemen, whose armour glanced in the setting sun.

"There are the Lances of Lynwood, Arthur," said Eustace, leaping
to the ground. "Keep your seat, and meet your father like a brave