although Edmund admonished him sharply that unless he bestirred
himself it would be the worse for him.

When the meal was over, and grace had been said, the boards were
removed from their trestles, and the elders drew round the small
table in the window with a flagon of sack and a plate of wastel
bread in their midst to continue their discussion of weighty Town
Council matters. Every one was free to make holiday, and Edmund
Burgess good-naturedly invited the strangers to come to Mile End,
where there was to be shooting at the butts, and a match at
singlestick was to come off between Kit Smallbones and another
giant, who was regarded as the champion of the brewer's craft.

Stephen was nothing loth, especially if he might take his own
crossbow; but Ambrose never had much turn for these pastimes and was
in no mood for them. The familiar associations of the mass had
brought the grief of orphanhood, homelessness, and uncertainty upon
him with the more force. His spirit yearned after his father, and
his heart was sick for his forest home. Moreover, there was the
duty incumbent on a good son of saying his prayers for the repose of
his father's soul. He hinted as much to Stephen, who, boy-like,
answered, "Oh, we'll see to that when we get into my Lord of York's
house. Masses must be plenty there. And I must see Smallbones
floor the brewer."

Ambrose could trust his brother under the care of Edmund Burgess,
and resolved on a double amount of repetitions of the appointed
intercessions for the departed.

He was watching the party of youths set off, all except Giles