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which he shaped to his desire as a handle for the dirk.

With light taps of the riveting-hammer he drove it into place and bound it fast with ferules chosen from a box under the cot. He then sat looking a long time at Phil, nodded, smiled, ran his fingers through his beard, smiled again and, with a fine tool, fell to working on the ferules. There had been a friendly look in the lad’s eyes, and of friendly looks the smith had got few in England. People bought his work because he was a master craftsman, but the country folk of England had little love for the Scots who came south in King James’s time and after, and a man had need to look sharp lest he fall victim to theft or worse than theft. He stopped and again looked at his guest, ran his fingers through his beard and demanded suddenly, “Thy name, laddie?”

“Philip Marsham.”

“Ye ’ll spell it out for me?”

This Phil did.

After working a while longer he said as if in afterthought, “Ye ’ll bide wi’ me a while?”

“No, I must be on my way.”

The man sighed heavily but said only, “I hae ta’en a likin’ to ye.”

Rising, the lad thrust his hand into his bosom and stood as if to take his leave.

“Na, na! Dinna haste! I ’ll ask ye to gie me help wi’ a bit that’s yet to be done.”

The smith turned his work over and over. He had made a dirk with a handle of bone bound with silver, and, as he turned it, he examined it with utmost care. “’T will do,” he said at last, “and noo for the wark that takes twa pair o’ hands.”

He pointed to a great grindstone.