and finely tanned piece of undressed doeskin. His long hose, fitting his shapely legs as closely as another layer of skin, were of the same red wool as his tunic, while his strong leather sandals were cross-gartered halfway to his knees with narrow bands of leather. 

 A leathern girdle about his waist supported a sword and a dagger and a round skull cap of the same material, to which was fastened a falcon’s wing, completed his picturesque and becoming costume. 

 “Your son?” he asked, turning to the old man. 

 “Yes,” was the growling response. 

 “He favors you but little, old fellow, except in his cursed French accent. 

 “’S blood, Beauchamp,” he continued, turning to one of his companions, “an’ were he set down in court, I wager our gracious Queen would he hard put to it to tell him from the young Prince Edward. Dids’t ever see so strange a likeness?” 

 “Now that you speak of it, My Lord, I see it plainly. It is indeed a marvel,” answered Beauchamp. 

 Had they glanced at the old man during this colloquy, they would have seen a blanched face, drawn with inward fear and rage. 

 Presently the oldest member of the party of three knights spoke in a grave quiet tone. 

 “And how old might you be, my son?” he asked the boy. 

 “I do not know.” 

 “And your name?” 

 “I do not know what you mean. I have no name. My father calls me son and no other ever before addressed me.” 

 At this juncture, the old man arose and left the room, saving he would fetch more food from the kitchen, but he turned immediately he had passed the doorway and listened from without. 

 “The lad appears about fifteen,” said Paul of Merely, lowering his voice, “and so would be the little lost Prince Richard, if he lives. This one does not know his name, or his age, yet he looks enough like Prince Edward to be his twin.” 

 “Come, my son,” he continued aloud, “open your jerkin and let us have a look at your left breast, we shall read a true answer there.” 

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