'Curse on, roundhead,' sighed the youth; 'I must crawl home.'

Once more he rose and made an effort to walk. But it was of no use:
walk he could not.

'I must wait till the morning,' he said, 'when some Christian
waggoner may be passing. Leave me in peace.'

'Nay, I am no such boor!' said Richard. 'Do you think you could
ride?'

'I could try.'

'I will bring you the best mare in Gwent. But tell me your name,
that I may know with whom I have the honour of a feud.'

'My name is Roland Scudamore,' answered the youth. 'Yours I know
already, and round-head as you are, you have some smatch of honour
in you.'

With an air of condescension he held out his hand, which his
adversary, oppressed with a sense of the injury he had done him, did
not refuse.

Richard hurried home, and to the stable, where he saddled his mare.
But his father, who was still in his study, heard the sound of her
hoofs in the paved yard, and met him as he led her out on the road,
with an inquiry as to his destination at such an hour. Richard told
him that he had had a quarrel with a certain young fellow of the