The pair were instantly surrounded by a mob of archers—burly, bearded men, rough in speech and coarse in manner, yet full-hearted, honest soldiers, the backbone of the feudalism of mediaeval England.
Raymond stood at the edge of the circle of men, gazing open-mouthed at the unusual sight and listening with youthful eagerness, not unmixed with feelings of awe, as the archers talked, fighting their battles o'er again, or discussed their future movements.
"'Twill be Francewards again ere long," remarked one, a man-at-arms, who, having removed his headpiece, disclosed a close crop of hair furrowed by a long white mark, the legacy of a Norman's axe. "Word came yesternight that we had to repair to Hampton to join the army that the King leads across the Channel."
"Would I were with you, comrades," said Redward, wistfully gazing on the accoutrements of the troops, the sight of which roused old memories of camp and battlefield.
"And wherefore not," replied another. "There's more to be made in a week's march in France than ten years' delving in Merry England. Ay, and I'll warrant that ere long there'll be nought but old men, women, and babes left to guard our hearths."
"Then I must be reckoned amongst the old men," replied Redward, with a mirthful laugh. "Though, methinks, at two score and fifteen years, I am not yet too aged to strike a shrewd blow or to receive hard knocks!"
"Then why tarry?"
"Didst ever have a son, Dickon?"
"Nay," replied the man, shaking his head. "Neither kith nor kin have I in this world, save my comrades."
"Then thou knowest not how a man's whole being can be wrapped up in his child. I have a son—he stands yonder. How could I leave him—a boy of sixteen—to fare for himself while I follow the banners of England in foreign parts?"