LONG John o' the Limp sat with his back against the mounting-block, polishing a pair of steel gauntlets.
The sun, not a great way as yet above the low peat hills that edged the little valley to eastwards, flung the shadow of the grey peel-tower far along the grass, and Long John o' the Limp shifted his legs to bring them into the sunshine.
"Hey! but I must be growing old, for I get as fond of warmth nowadays as a cat of the fire," grunted the moss-trooper, his keen eye following the course of the stream that gurgled among its rushes as it flowed from the Scottish border, "and yet—if those reiving loons came riding here I doubt not they would find some bite still left in these withered jaws!"
"Good-morrow, Long John," said a sweet girl voice behind him, and there in the doorway of the Tower stood little Mistress Alison Langley, hawk upon fist, and her riding skirt gathered up in the other hand.
"Grammercy, child, and where be ye going?" said the moss-trooper, getting slowly to his feet, for he was sadly lame from the slash of a Jedburgh axe in an old border raid.
"Jocelyn flies his new falcon on the Red Moss, and I go with him," said the pretty little maid, her golden hair all a-curl about her cheeks, and looking mighty charming in the ancient doorway.
Before Long John could open his mouth, Jocelyn came down the narrow stone stairs which wound in the thickness of the wall, and burst out into the sunshine—a brown-faced boy in a green doublet, a heron's feather in his flat cap, and a pair of silver spurs on his heels.
"Have a care, Master Jocelyn," said Long John, "the Red Moss is not the safest place for your father's son, and if Wat Armstrong should spy you, there will be wiping off of old scores."
"Black Wat has not dared to show his nose on English ground since my father burned his tower and harried his lands three years ago," said Jocelyn proudly; "and why should he be on the Red Moss to-day?"