A mediaeval gentleman with the docile notions of the twelfth century, complacently driving them to grass and wattling them in the nineteenth, could be of no use to a boy trying to think, though he could set the youngster galloping.

Nevil wandered about the woods of Steynham, disinclined to shoot and lend a hand to country sports.

The popping of the guns of his uncle and guests hung about his ears much like their speech, which was unobjectionable in itself, but not sufficient; a little hard, he thought, a little idle.

He wanted something, and wanted them to give their time and energy to something, that was not to be had in a market.

The nobles, he felt sure, might resume their natural alliance with the people, and lead them, as they did of old, to the battle-field.