Alwyn tells me that no man of Percy's troop did better than you, in that fight with the Welsh; save, mayhap, that big man-at-arms down there, who, he tells me, cracked the skulls of four Welshmen who were trying to stab you, besides those he disposed of on his own account." "I owe him my life, indeed, Father.

He is a man after your own heart, strong and brave and hearty, even jovial when occasion offers.

He can troll out a border lay with the best, and can yet read and write as well as an abbot.

His name is Roger." "Come up, Roger," John Forster shouted, "and give me a grip of your hand.

You have saved my son's life, as he tells me; and, so long as you live, there will be a nook by the fire, here, and a hearty welcome, when you are tired of soldiering." "In truth, you are a mighty man," he went on, after he and Roger had exchanged a grip that would have well nigh broken the bones of an ordinary man.