The boy sat upon his small grey Andalusian horse as if he
had lived a lifetime in the saddle, but his twelve-year-old hand was
heavier on the bridle than ever his father's had been.
There was something in the bearing of the two, father and son, so
kingly and high that Gilbert, who had been brought up in Norman
courtesy, involuntarily rose in the saddle as much as his long stirrups
would allow, and lifted his cap from his head, supposing, as was
natural, that he was saluting the lord of the lands through which he
was travelling. The other returned the salutation with a wave of the
hand, looked sharply at Gilbert, and then, to the latter's surprise,
drew rein, the lad beside him ranging back half a length so as not to
be in the way between the other two. For a few seconds neither said a
word. Then the elder man, as though expecting something of which the
younger was not aware, smiled kindly and spoke. His voice was strong
and manly, but clear and sweet.
"You are strange here, sir," he said, with something more like an
assertion than a question in his turn.
"From England, sir," answered Gilbert, bowing slightly in the saddle.
The elder man looked hard at him and knit his brows. Few English
gentlemen had refused allegiance to King Stephen.
"From England? And what may you be doing in Normandy, young sir?
Stephen's friends find little friendship here."
"I am not of them, sir," answered Gilbert, drawing himself up somewhat
haughtily. "I am rather of those who would shorten Stephen's reign by
the length of his life, and his body by a head.
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