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The grey mists of early morn were clinging to the dank earth when Ralph awoke after such snatches of sleep as he could get amid the noise of that large body of ill-assorted men.

It was Sunday morning, the 27th of July--a day Ralph well remembered, for it was this very day a year ago he had left his father's house to seek his fortune in the household of the Captain of the Wight. What events had taken place since then! He thought of it all, and his heart beat as he turned to look over the leafy woods, the steep slopes of the hilly country, with its fresh valleys, whence, amid the rich foliage of orchard and copse and wide-reaching forest, the spires of the village churches and the steep gables of nestling farm-houses rose above the steaming verdure, or peeped out in shy suggestion. The birds were warbling blithely all around. There was a tinkle of distant bells, a hum of awakening life, and the soft, warm fragrance of a midsummer night still floated in the balmy morning air.

Ralph could not believe that in another few hours he and all that host of lusty, careless men would be fighting for fame and name, and very life itself. He had only twice had experience of the fierce struggle of deadly fight. But his whole training had accustomed him to it, and he gave little thought to the battle. But the deep bells from a neighbouring monastery stirred softer thoughts. He thought of his mother and father, of Thruxton Manor away over the sea, and then of his cousin Yolande and his promise.

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