No, the lesson they are learning on this bright September afternoon is one that boys of our time might call play,—and yet it is a pretty hard lesson too.

Their master has set up for them a quintain, and Guy, and Walter, and Geoffrey and Robert, and even little Hugh, are trying their skill by riding at it.

Let us take a look at the quintain, for perhaps you have never seen one before. It is a rough figure of a man fastened by a pivot upon a post in such a way that it will easily swing round. It bears a club in one hand and in the other a shield held before it.

Now watch young Geoffrey as he rides his pony gallantly, and, with lance in rest and head bent low, charges the quintain.

See, he strikes fairly on the middle of the shield, and passing, wheels his pony and returns to the entrance of the court yard.

Then up comes Robert, and he too would gladly strike the shield; but it is not so easy to manage both pony and lance at the same time; the blow falls on one side instead of in the middle, and instantly the quintain swings round and deals him a blow with the club as he passes. Even the pony seems to share the shame of this failure, and he and his young rider return with drooping heads to the end of the lists. You see it is not a very easy lesson after all, and it takes much practice and patience to learn it.

Up rides one boy after another, and with varying fortunes they return and are ready to try again at their master's call, till the red sunset lights up the tall towers of the castle, and the narrow windows,—mere slits in the thick stone wall,—glitter like gems as they reflect the light, for they have glass in them, a new and precious article which has just come into use in place of the oiled paper which formerly covered the window slits.

The Lady Margaret comes to the castle door. She calls to her Walter, the page.

"You have the eye of a hawk, Walter," she says. "Go to the battlement of the north tower, and see if you can spy the banners of my lord returning from the battle."

The boy bows gracefully and bounds up the narrow stone stairway that winds about within the thickness of the massive wall. He springs up stair after stair, and soon finds himself on the battlements of the north tower, looking far over field and forest towards the high road and the ford of the winding river.

Suddenly out from the forest path just beside the ford he sees a glittering helmet, and the shimmer of light upon lance and shield.

"He comes!" cries the boy, waving his hand to the watchers below, and then, running quickly down, he drops on one knee at the feet of the lady, and says, "Dear lady, my lord is already passing the ford of the white stones, and he will be here before the sunset light has faded."

The lady thanks him with a gracious smile, and bidding him go back to his companions, she turns to the steward and squire of the hall, and bids them prepare the feast, for the knights will be both faint and weary.

The boys loiter about the castle gate, listening for the bugle blast that shall announce the approach of the lord of the castle, and presently a gay troop of knights on prancing horses, with pennon on lance, breaks from the gloomy forest, and with a ringing bugle blast turns up the hill-path that leads to the castle gate.

The heavy drawbridge is swung across the moat; the barred portcullis is raised, and with jingling spurs and clashing shields the knights pass into the court-yard.

Riding behind Sir Roland is a boy of twelve years; on his saddle-bow he carries his lord's helmet; and he watches with careful attention every word or gesture of Sir Roland, as if expecting some command. In a moment it comes.

"Gilbert, take thou the English boy to thy master, Baldwin, and he will provide for him lodging, and all needful care."

And turning to a fair-faced, golden-haired boy, who rides at his side, he says to him, "Go thou with Gilbert. The son of so valiant a father will find welcome and safety in my castle."

So the two boys turn their horses' heads towards the side of the court-yard, where we have already seen Walter and Guy and the others charging the quintain.

Gilbert conducts his companion to Baldwin, the old squire, and presents him as Edward, son of Sir Richard Britto, a hostage for his father, who was yesterday taken prisoner by Sir Roland.

Sir Richard had gone home to England to raise his ransom and had left his son as hostage for his own appearance here, as soon thereafter as the will of heaven will permit.

Baldwin, the squire, receives the English lad kindly, and directs that he shall share Gilbert's lodging at the top of the north tower, and then he bids the boys make ready to serve the meal.

Walter and Geoffrey and Guy are already busy relieving the knights of their heavy armor, and the tables are laid in the long hall, which, now that daylight is fading, has been lighted with blazing torches.

"A long hall it is indeed. The walls are hung with tapestry, whereon are strange pictures of men and animals, towers and trees, castles and stag-hunts. Banners are grouped over the windows, and shields hang glittering in the torch-light; the floor is strewn with sweet herbs, from which the foot presses out the fragrance as the knights come in with stately tread.

A long table down the middle, and a shorter one across the upper end, on a slightly raised platform, are already loaded with dishes and flagons. A large thick slice of bread serves each guest as a plate, and a little crusty loaf, called a knight's loaf, is placed beside his dish of soup.

There are boar's flesh and venison, and baked meats, and as the knights take seats in the order of their rank, their favorite dogs stretch themselves at their feet.

The pages—many of them sons of these same knights—serve every one, pour the wine, carve the meats, and pass the dishes.

Presently two damsels enter, carrying between them a silver dish, upon which rests a roasted peacock, gay in all its feathers and with outspread resplendent tail.

They advance to the upper table, and there set the dainty dish before the lord of the castle; and then the twanging of a harp is heard, and the old gray-haired minstrel begins to sing, and the feast is fairly begun.

Gilbert and his companion have soon washed off the dust of their journey, and are ready to take their share of the service, while they listen with delight to the minstrel's song, relating feats of arms of the knights of old, and ending with Sir Roland's own brave victory of yesterday.

After the feast is over, Gilbert is summoned by a gentle lady,—Edith by name,—whom he had chosen when he was but eight years old for his mistress, whom he would loyally serve for ever.

She asks him about the expedition from which he has just returned, and when he has told his tale, modestly omitting to mention himself at all, she says with a smile that brightens all her face, "And you, too, have acquitted yourself well. Sir Roland tells me that you pressed through many dangers to bring him a fresh lance when his own was broken, and that but for thee, my Gilbert, he would not have been able to take prisoner, this English knight, Sir Richard Britto. It is good to be valiant amid dangers, but there is no real danger but the danger of being a coward." So said the lady Edith.

The boy's face glows with delight as he hears these words from his fair lady.

"And bring me even now thy new comrade, the English hostage," she says. And Gilbert, crossing the hall, finds the lad standing in the deep embrasure of the window, and listening, with a scowl on his brow, to the discourse of two knights who are recounting the events of the last few days.

"He yielded, rescue or no rescue," said one, "and the word of a knight is a bond not to be broken. And yet, I doubt not, his kinsmen will gather to his rescue; and in a week and a day, if not earlier, we must bar our gates and hold our own as best we may against Sir Everhard with two hundred lances at his back."

At this moment Gilbert touches the boy upon the shoulder, saying, "My lady Edith calls for thee,—come," and with a light step and the martial bearing of young knights the two boys return to the lady who awaits them.

With gentle kindness she questions the little stranger about his home, and bids him welcome to the Castle of St. Claire.

"It may be that the fortunes of war will leave you with us for many months, and that your training as becomes the son of a knight be not allowed to languish, you shall exercise each day under the care of Baldwin, the squire, and you shall choose among the ladies of St. Claire a mistress whom you will serve."

"I serve my lady mother," answers the boy, with a touch of resentment in his tone. "It is she whom I love, and I will serve her before all others."

"Nay, be not rude. You will make but an ungentle knight, if you have no softer tone than that for a lady. You serve your lady mother from duty, but what lady will you serve for love? See yonder lovely ladies who listen to the tales that the knights are telling. Choose, then, one among them to be your mistress while you abide with us; for how can your knightly training go on if you lack a mistress to smile upon your successes and admonish you when there is need."

Again the boy hesitates; but, looking up, he sees the kindly eyes of the Lady Margaret fixed upon him with a look of pity, and he says to Gilbert, "Lead me to the kind lady with the broidered robe. I will gladly serve her while I stay."

So Gilbert led him to Lady Margaret, who instantly understood the purpose of his coming, and sent him to lead to her side her favorite greyhound, that had strayed across the hall.

But the feast is over; the knights are grouped about the hall. Young Sir Ranulf is stringing his lute, that he may sing to Lady Edith the little lay that he made in her honor as he rode through the greenwood. Old Sir Guy, too feeble now for warfare, is listening to every detail of the fight of yesterday, and asking, "What news from the king's court?"

"The king," replies Sir Gerard, "has ordered each nobleman to cause the high roads in his province to be guarded every day from sunrise to sunset; and if, by his neglect, robberies shall occur, he must make the loss good."

"It is a hard task he sets us," adds Sir "If a man must keep the highway safe, he will have little time for aught else."

The boys, who would gladly stay and listen, have been sent to their lodgings in the north tower, and while they sleep shall you and I ramble about this castle, their home, and become a little better acquainted with it?

All around it is a wide, deep moat or ditch, to be crossed only by a bridge which is drawn up and safely secured in the great arched gateway of the outer wall.

If we sound our horn, and, announcing ourselves as friends, are allowed to cross the drawbridge and enter the gateway, there is still the great, barred portcullis that can be suddenly let down to prevent our further entrance, if the warder so wills.

But we are welcome guests and we soon find ourselves in the outer court, the place where the boys were practising with the quintain yesterday.

Here on one side are stables for the horses, lodging for the yeomen and the squires, and room for saddling and mounting when the train of knights make ready to ride out to battle or to tournament.

Square towers guard the gateway and the corners of the walls, and the great stone battlements have many a slit or gutter down which boiling tar or melted lead may be poured upon a besieging enemy.

The stone stairways wind with many a turn through the walls. If an enemy should succeed in crossing the moat, forcing the gate, and winning the outer court, still the great strong inner keep may be held, and every stair defended with sword and dagger and battle-axe. For these are times when each man's home is a castle, a fort to be held against neighbors who may any day prove themselves enemies.

You would not need to live in this castle many months to witness many a brave defence against enemies who are also brave.