s in the
bravest raiment that the eyes of Constans had ever yet beheld. For his
close-fitting suit was of claret-colored velvet with gilt buttons, while
his throat-gear was a wonderfully fine lace jabot, with a great red
jewel fastened in the knot. A soft hat, trimmed with gold lace and an
ostrich-feather, covered his dark curls, while yellow gauntlets and high
riding-boots of polished leather completed his outward attire. Not an
unpleasing picture as he sat there in the sunshine astride the big
blood-bay, but Constans, looking upon him, knew that neither now nor
hereafter could there be any verity of peace between them. There is such
a thing as hate at first sight even as there is love.

The horseman had retained the feathered end of the arrow-shaft, and he
proceeded to examine it with an appearance of polite interest.

"Your private token, young sir?" he inquired, indicating the single
feather of scarlet. His voice was pitched in an affectedly high key, his
manner languidly ceremonious. Constans could only bow stiffly in the
affirmative.

"Ah, yes; it is one not to be easily forgotten. I, too, have my
sign-manual, and I should have been glad to have exchanged with you."

Again Constans bowed. He wanted to say something, but the words would
not come. The cavalier smiled.

"But there may be another opportunity later on," he continued. "At
least, we may hope so." He bowed, lifting his plumed hat. "To our future
acquaintance." He turned his horse's head to the southward, and rode
away at a slow canter without once looking back.

Constans watched the ostrich-crest as it rose and fell, until it was
lost to sight among the tree-trunks. Then, drawing his belt tight, he
started on a dog-trot in the contrary direction; the barrier, admitting
him to the protection of the stockade, was still some distance away, and
he must reach it without delay and give the warning. But, even as he
ran, he heard the tolling of a bell; it was the alarm that the Doomsmen
were abroad. Now, indeed, he must make haste or he would find the
barrier closed against himself.

Ten minutes later he stood before the northern entrance of the Greenwood
Keep. Already the warders were fitting into place the gates of
iron-studded oak, but they recognized the voice of their lord's son and
allowed him to squeeze his way through. Guyder Touchett, the burly
captain of the watch, clapped him familiarly on the back.

"Your legs have saved your skin, master. Go