"Who be ye? I know none of you," muttered the old man, shaking his
head still more.

"We are Ambrose and Stephen from the Forest," shouted Ambrose.

"Ah! Steve! poor Stevie! The accursed boar has rent his goodly
face so as I would never have known him. Poor Steve! Best his
soul!"

The old man began to weep, while his nephews recollected that they
had heard that another uncle had been slain by the tusk of a wild
boar in early manhood. Then to their surprise, his eyes fell on
Spring, and calling the hound by name, he caressed the creature's
head--"Spring, poor Spring! Stevie's faithful old dog. Hast lost
thy master? Wilt follow me now?"

He was thinking of a Spring as well as of a Stevie of sixty years
ago, and he babbled on of how many fawns were in the Queen's Bower
this summer, and who had best shot at the butts at Lyndhurst, as if
he were excited by the breath of his native Forest, but there was no
making him understand that he was speaking with his nephews. The
name of his brother John only set him repeating that John loved the
greenwood, and would be content to take poor Stevie's place and
dwell in the verdurer's lodge; but that he himself ought to be
abroad, he had seen brave Lord Talbot's ships ready at Southampton,
John might stay at home, but he would win fame and honour in
Gascony.

And while he thus wandered, and the boys stood by perplexed and