ruts. The lady is somewhat more than of the middle age; yet she rides with a firm seat, holds herself erect, and complains not of weariness, though she had tasted no food save a small manchet since she had partaken of the lenten whiteherring at the breakfast time of seven. Behind the lady follows the somewhat impatient steed of a reverend priest, who, with submission be it said, does not endure the long fast quite so patiently as she of the weaker frame; and whose restlessness communicates itself to his horse through the pricking of the spur and the snatching of the bit, which occasionally manifests that he who governs the quadruped requires a small portion of self-government to endure the evils of this laborious wayfaring. The lady is the worshipful Mistress Margaret Paston, widow; the priest is her chaplain, Sir James Gloys. Behind them come two led sumpter-mules, laden with panniers and other gear, but not having to stumble under a very heavy load. The hinds who drive them are themselves driven by an upper servant of the lady's house. The destination of the party is the fair castle of Caister. It is now a desolate place, whose halls have become ruinous farm-buildings, and whose moat is a miry pond. The weary travellers look up briskly when they see the great tower standing out in sharp relief in the twilight, rising high over the hill behind its turrets. The horses, who have pleasant recollections of stall and crib, press into a trot as they pass the church; and making a short

turn, go cheerily along, till horse and foot halt at the gate of the avenue, which led to the drawbridge of the western moat.

The gate is quickly opened by the footmen, who shout lustily, "Nicholas, Nicholas, down with bridge, our lady is come." But no Nicholas is at hand to answer; and indeed the shouting is somewhat unnecessary, for the bridge is already lowered, and the mother of the lord of Caister rides without challenge into the outer court of the goodly castle. No warder from its tower has given signal of her approach; no porter, armed to the teeth, is there to make a show of vigilance, if the reality were wanting. The dame is angered beyond measure; but she is silent. Again the footmen shout, "Nicholas," as they thunder with their staves against the ponderous western porch which led through a corridor to the inner court. Not a light is to be seen through window or loophole; but as the rising moon throws a glimmer upon the castle walls, a faint wreath is observed creeping up from the precincts of the kitchen, which tells that the place is not wholly deserted. The knockings are again repeated by the impatient grooms, who, despite the presence of the lady and the priest, are not sparing of oaths, which, although peculiar to the period, and as such of grave interest to resolute antiquaries, are scarcely needful to be set down by us, who aim at no profundity in our archæological gleanings. At length a lamp glimmers through a side slit in the great tower; and the yeoman of the

buttery, who has charge of the sumpter-mules, advances, and with a double oath demands admission. The owner of the voice within gives no mark to a possible enemy without; but shouts securely below the loop-hole, "Mant come in, bor." For an instant Mistress Margaret Paston feels the discomfort, and almost shame, of this exclusion from the shelter of her son's castle-the possession which the Pastons were ready to defend to the extremest issue against those who denied their right to its quiet keeping. She even thinks for a moment that Caister had been forcibly wrested from their hands; that their enemies are within its walls. But a second thought assures her that this could not have happened; for in that case a better watch would have been kept. Her own knaves had been faithless to their trust. Advancing, with the spirit that becomes her station, beneath the tower-the priest, however, wisely remaining with the grooms in the apprehension of some foe in ambush-the Paston cries out, with a voice of authority," Who are you, varlet, that deny your mistress entrance? Come down and unbar door, or you shall keep your Easter in a lower chamber than you now hide in." Again the voice shouts, "Mant come in, bor." The lady is incensed; the priest is cold and hungry; the yeoman of the buttery and the footmen are furious, for they had an undoubting trust that there was supper in the larder, and a fervent hope that there was wine in the cellar. The point is to find an entrance. They forthwith begin to

shout for Peryn Sale, John Chapman, and Robert Jackson, men-at-arms that they thought were within the walls; but no answer comes. Nor is the cry more fortunate for Robert Jackson, John Chapman, and Peryn Sale. In whatever way the demand is varied there comes the one answer from the one voice, "Mant come in, bor." The lady chafes and mutters, "Oh, that Daubeney were here to have a rule!" She suddenly bethinks her of William Penny, a soldier of Calais, lately sent to the keeping of Caister, of whom her son, Sir John Paston, had written a remarkable eulogy, purporting that he was bald, and as good a man as goeth upon the earth, saving a little-which little was that he was apt to get a little drunk. So "William Penny" is forthwith shouted, and the courts of Caister echo "William Penny." It is all in vain. Some one thinks of John Thresher, to call upon in their need; and at length a voice is heard within-" Up, James Hallman—stand to your tackling-they are over the moat; up, you drunken varlet; up, Rawlings; bills, bills, lights, lights." The shoutings within the portal are answered by another faint shouting from an inner chamber; and now a Babel of sounds is rising in the distance, and the voice of the chief in command, William Penny the soldier of Calais, might be heard above the general uproar-" Harrow, harrow! loselly gadlings!-bacinets, halberts!" And then this great leader, rubbing his eyes, solemnly says" Here's lachesse. Know ye not that it is

written in the Ordinances for War, that every man be obeysant to his captain, to keep his watch and ward, and to do all that longeth a soldier to do? Muster mountee! havock!" Fearful as these "escries" are, the garrison seem not inclined for a sortie; nor, indeed, would any such inclination have availed them much, for the gates of Caister are all locked upon them. Yet those without are not wholly free from peril; and several draw close under the dark shade of a buttress, for a quarrel from a loop-hole might have closed a weary journey with unnecessary awkwardness for some one. A sudden relief lights upon them in the form of Nicholas the porter, who, all unconscious of the presence in which he is about to stand, comes singing up to the drawbridge, with a basket on his shoulder and a keg slung to his side. The yeoman of the buttery, his old and faithful friend, advances to meet him, as he stands irresolutely on the bridge, seeing unexpected company. "Oh, Nicholas, Nicholas," ejaculates the afflicted yeoman, "what could lead you to desert your post?"

66

"Hunger," stoutly answers Nicholas. "Hunger, what has made many a bold man run afore now." Hunger!" interposes Dame Margaret; “who presumes to talk of hunger in Sir John Paston's castle of Caister? Nicholas, Nicholas, if you had not been porter of old to Sir John Fastolf, of blessed memory ("Whom God assoil," said the priest), I would discharge you on the spot. Let no one talk of hunger in this fair castle, as an excuse for the