He had scarce dared to face the change which had come upon him, when a few sudden chance words showed it all up hard and clear, like a lightning flash in the darkness.
He had ridden over to Poole, one November day, with his fellow-squire, Peter Terlake, in quest of certain yew-staves from Wat Swathling, the Dorsetshire armorer.

The day for their departure had almost come, and the two youths spurred it over the lonely downs at the top of their speed on their homeward course, for evening had fallen and there was much to be done.

Peter was a hard, wiry, brown faced, country-bred lad who looked on the coming war as the schoolboy looks on his holidays.
This day, however, he had been sombre and mute, with scarce a word a mile to bestow upon his comrade.
"Tell me Alleyne Edricson," he broke out, suddenly, as they clattered along the winding track which leads over the Bournemouth hills, "has it not seemed to you that of late the Lady Maude is paler and more silent than is her wont ?" "It may be so," the other answered shortly.
"And would rather sit distrait by her oriel than ride gayly to the chase as of old.

Methinks, Alleyne, it is this learning which you have taught her that has taken all the life and sap from her.

It is more than she can master, like a heavy spear to a light rider." "Her lady-mother has so ordered it," said Alleyne.
"By our Lady! and withouten disrespect," quoth Terlake, "it is in my mind that her lady-mother is more fitted to lead a company to a storming than to have the upbringing of this tender and milk-white maid.