Drogo was about a year older than Hubert, tall and dark, of a haughty and intolerant disposition, and very “masterful,” but, as the old saw says:
Mores puerorum se detegunt inter ludendum.
So we will draw no more pen and ink sketches, but leave our characters to show themselves by their deeds.
It was a pleasant evening in early autumn, and the scene was the park of Kenilworth, some few months after the arrival of our two pages at the castle. Half a dozen of the youthful aspirants to chivalry, amongst whom were Drogo, Hubert, and Martin, gathered under an oak occupying an elevated site in the park: they had evidently just left the forest, for hares and rabbits were lying on the ground, the result of a little foray into the cover.
“What a view we have here; one can see the towers of Warwick, over the woods.”
“And there is the line of hills over Keinton and Radway {[9]}.”
“And there Black Down Hill.”
“And there the spires of Coventry.”
“Yes,” said Drogo, “but it is not like the view from my uncle’s castle in the Andredsweald, over a far wilder forest than this of Arden, with the great billowy downs for a southern bulwark. There be wolves, yea, boars, and for lesser beasts of prey wildcats, badgers, and polecats; while the deer are as plentiful as sheep.”
“And where is that castle?” said Hubert.