"When man's merit and woman's beauty are measured by the ell, Catesby,
Anne will certainly be less fair than Isabel, and Richard a dolt
compared to Clarence. Open the casement; my dressing-robe; good-night
to you!"




CHAPTER III.

THE SISTERS.

The next morning, at an hour when modern beauty falls into its first
sickly sleep, Isabel and Anne conversed on the same terrace, and near
the same spot, which had witnessed their father's meditations the day
before. They were seated on a rude bench in an angle of the wall,
flanked by a low, heavy bastion. And from the parapet their gaze
might have wandered over a goodly sight, for on a broad space, covered
with sand and sawdust, within the vast limits of the castle range, the
numerous knights and youths who sought apprenticeship in arms and
gallantry under the earl were engaged in those martial sports which,
falling elsewhere in disuse, the Last of the Barons kinglily
maintained. There, boys of fourteen, on their small horses, ran
against each other with blunted lances. There, those of more advanced
adolescence, each following the other in a circle, rode at the ring;
sometimes (at the word of command from an old knight who had fought at
Agincourt, and was the preceptor in these valiant studies) leaping
from their horses at full speed, and again vaulting into the saddle.
A few grim old warriors sat by to censure or applaud. Most skilled
among the younger was the son of Lord Montagu; among the maturer, the