("Cruel-work" she called it, and the boy quite agreed.) This man's face was pink and fair, his hair golden.
"Warn him not of the hilt-thrust, Seymour, lad," he said suddenly.
"Give it him first--for a sneering, bullying, taverning, chambering knave." The tall gentleman glanced at his down-flung cup, raised his eyebrows, and drank from the bottle.
"Such _would_ annoy _you_, Hal, of course," he murmured.
A man dressed in what appeared to be a striped football jersey under a leather waistcoat and steel breast-plate, high boots and a steel helmet led up a great horse.
The boy loved the horse.

It was very like "Fire".
The gentleman (called Seymour) patted it fondly, stroked his nose, and gave it a piece of his bread.
"Well, Crony Long-Face ?" he said fondly.
He then put his left foot in the great box-stirrup and swung himself into the saddle--a very different kind of saddle from those with which the boy was familiar.
It reminded him of Circuses and the Lord Mayor's Show.

It was big enough for two and there was a lot of velvet and stuff about it and a fine gold _C.R._--whatever that might mean--on a big pretty cloth under it (perhaps the gentleman's initials were C.R.just as his own were D.de W.and on some of his things).
The great fat handle of a great fat pistol stuck up on each side of the front of the saddle.
"Follow," said the gentleman to the iron-bound person, and moved off at a walk towards a road not far distant.
"Stap him! Spit him, Seymour," called the pink-faced man, "and warn him not of the hilt-thrust." As he passed the corner of the camp, two men with great axe-headed spear things performed curious evolutions with their cumbersome weapons, finally laying the business ends of them on the ground as the gentleman rode by.
He touched his hat to them with his switch.
Continuing for a mile or so, at a walk, he entered a dense coppice and dismounted.
"Await me," he said to his follower, gave him the curb-rein, and walked on to an open glade a hundred yards away.
(It was a perfect spot for Red Indians, Smugglers, Robin Hood, Robinson Crusoe or any such game, the boy noted.) Almost at the same time, three other men entered the clearing, two together, and one from a different quarter.
"For the hundredth time, Seymour, lad, _mention not the hilt-thrust_, as you love me and the King," said this last one quietly as he approached the gentleman; and then the two couples behaved in a ridiculous manner with their befeathered hats, waving them in great circles as they bowed to each other, and finally laying them on their hearts before replacing them.
"Mine honour is my guide, Will," answered the gentleman called Seymour, somewhat pompously the boy considered, though he did not know the word.
Sir Seymour then began to remove the slashed coat and other garments until he stood in his silk stockings, baggy knickerbockers, and jolly cambric shirt--nice and loose and free at the neck as the boy thought.
He rolled up his right sleeve, drew the sword, and made one or two passes--like Sergeant Havlan always did before he began fencing.
The other two men, meantime, had been behaving somewhat similarly--talking together earnestly and one of them undressing.
The one who did this was a very powerful-looking man and the arm he bared reminded the boy of that of a "Strong Man" he had seen recently at Monksmead Fair, in a tent, and strangely enough his face reminded him of that of his own Father.
He had a nasty face though, the boy considered, and looked like a bounder because he had pimples, a swelly nose, a loud voice, and a swanky manner.

The boy disapproved of him wholly.

It was like his cheek to resemble Father, as well as to have the same name.
His companion came over to the gentleman called Will, carrying the strong man's bared sword and, bowing ridiculously (with his hat, both hands, and his feet) said:-- "Shall we measure, Captain Ormonde Delorme ?" Captain Delorme then took the sword from Sir Seymour, bowed as the other had done, and handed him the sword with a mighty flourish, hilt first.
It proved to be half an inch shorter than the other, and Captain Delorme remarked that his Principal would waive that.
He and the strong man's companion then chose a spot where the grass was very short and smooth, where there were no stones, twigs or inequalities, and where the light of the setting sun fell sideways upon the combatants--who tip-toed gingerly, and rather ridiculously, in their stockinged feet, to their respective positions.