So like him, that they might have passed for brothers, was one of the elder boys, who stood near—there was the same high white brow, proud lip, regular features, and bright eye; but the complexion, though naturally fair, was tanned to a healthy brown where exposed to the sun; the frame was far stronger and more robust; and the glance of the eye had more in it of pride and impatience, than of calm command so remarkable in the little one. The three boys were standing in consultation over an arrow which they had just discovered, stuck deep in the ground.
"'Tis my arrow, that I shot over the mark on Monday," said the elder.
"Nay, Harry," said the younger boy, "that cannot be; for remember Thomas Holland said your arrow would frighten the good nuns of St. Ursula in their garden."
"It must be mine," persisted Harry—"for none of you all can shoot as far."
"Yes, English Arthur can," said the little boy. "He shot a whole cloth-yard beyond you the day—"
"Well, never mind, Edward," said Harry, sharply—"who cares for arrows?—weapons for clowns, and not for Princes!"
"Nay, not so, Lord Harry," interrupted the third boy: "I have heard my uncle say, many a time, that England's archery is half her strength—and how it was our archers at the battle of Crecy—"
"I know all that—how the men of Genoa had wet bow-strings, and ours dry ones," said Henry; "but they were peasants, after all!"
"Ay; but a King of England should know how to praise and value his good yeomen."
Henry turned on his heel, and, saying, "Well, let the arrow be whose it will, I care not for it," walked off.