Forth through the night, bubbling with good spirit and anticipated merriment, stalked the St. George Band of Christmas players, adorned in such a brave manner as even to make the redoubtable British champion, had he lived to see it, green with envy. What variable garments! What coats adorned with tinsel, red, and gold, and striped! What shields of brilliant paper or tin, spears of warlike hickory, and swords—not near so sharp as the Saracen blade, but still as sharp as wood could be whittled with a jack-knife; and caps of tall, many-hued tinsel; had the real St. George worn one of them the terrible, ripping, snorting, steam-breathing dragon would have bellowed in anguish, and have fallen down in a dead faint. But they were good enough for the occasion and their very form was sacred by ancestry.
House after house was visited and the fun grew fast and furious. At very few places were they not given a ready entrance and hearty welcome.
"Now les to the squire's!" exclaimed one, and the proposition was hailed with delight. The distance was not far, and the time was shortened by conversation and by a little warlike practice between St. George and his Mohammendan enemy, the Turk, in which practice the Turk received a terrific, broad sword slash, that made him pucker up his face like the picture of the Saracen's head at the village inn. The Turk was not gifted in the Turkish language, but made up for it by giving vent in broad Cornish dialect to his feelings.
"Damme, Ande, ef thee'rt going to cut my nose off my faace and scat my brains out, I'll be a Turk no longer," and Tommy Puckinharn flung down his sword in disgust, and stalked on ahead of the company. With one hand nursing his injured olfactory and the other thrust in his breast, and meekly followed by his fellows, he looked like Napoleon and army on the retreat from Moscow. Some one picked up the Turk's weapon and immediately a discussion arose. No one but a knight must carry a sword in the company. Sword bearing was the special prerogative of a knight and "tother chaps must carry spears." The sword bearer then pleaded to be made a knight, and if Tommy wouldn't be the Turk to install him in his place. But that was what Tommy didn't want. He had no desire of being turned out of the second place in the company, even if he did throw down his weapon, and so he returned and indignantly protested. When a soldier loses his sword and another finds it, he ought to return it, was the Turk's argument.
St. George settled the affair by raising the sword finder to the rank of a squire. The bravery of the Turk in their late encounter, and his heroic courage on other occasions, merited that he should have an armour bearer, a squire, to be his constant attendant. The sword finder was elated and, somehow or other, the pain in the Turk's nose was healed by this new dignity that his valour had added to his reputation. There was no more practice in the warlike arts, for the Manor gates were passed and the great house was near.
The numerous chimney pots sent up various curling clouds of smoke that glistened palely in the moonlight. The diamond-shaped window panes gleamed and scintillated with the illumination within, except where a dark shadow of holly wreath obstructed the light. The broad verandas were festooned with ropes of evergreen. Up the broad steps strode the players and, after a few mute looks and a little whispered colloquy, the herald lifted the rapper and sent a peal through the old building that would have been certainly heard at any other time but Christmas eve.
Within there was the noise of frolick. The servants were haw-hawing in the kitchen department over some joke or amusement, and the occasional thump, thump of feet in measured time indicated a dance, perhaps between the cook and hostler. The squire's hall was replete with good cheer. Wreaths of evergreen inter twined with sprigs of holly were hung at regular spaces on the waxed, panelled walls. At one end was a large life-sized painting of George the Second. Squire Vivian had a great reverence for the king that had secured to his family the estate of Trembath. His father had served King George faithfully in the east, and there had ever been a strong friendship between the Vivians and the Hapsburgs. At the other end of the hall hung the picture of the squire's father and, although in warlike garb, yet had a friendly smile on his features as if in greeting to His Majesty, the King, on the opposite wall. In the centre of the side wall was the great open fireplace, the grate having been removed to make room for the great yule block that was kindled every Christmas eve with almost religious ceremonies, and near its warm glow was the form of the squire, seated in his great armchair. He looked the very impersonation of Father Christmas, minus the beard. Near him were two or three of his friends from the east, men of his own age, who seemed to enjoy his conversation and laughed as merrily as himself. A whist party was in progress on the other side of the fireplace, while down the long room, here and there, were scattered various groups engaged in various Christmas games. The hall floor was not carpeted, for the squire scorned such modern improvements as innovations and desired nothing better than the old-fashioned waxed floors. Neither did he see fit to remove any of the emblems of his father's predecessors, for above the flaming firelog stretched the high oak mantel, and carved in relief on its shiny surface was the figure of a Lyonnese warrior galloping amidst devouring ocean waves.
The squire was just chuckling over a young lady's mishap in getting under the mistletoe when the herald of the St. George company, tired of raising the great knocker, pushed open the door and entered the hall. There was a thump on the floor to demand attention, and then in as authoritative voice as he could command came the heralding of the brave gallants without.
"Room, a—a—room, brave gallants, room!
Within this court,
I do resort
To show some sport
And pastime;
Gentlemen and ladies, in the Christmas time."