The Forest Lovers

A tall and lean youth was Prosper le Gai, fair-haired and sanguine,

square-built and square-chinned. He smiled at you; you saw two capital

rows of white teeth, two humorous blue eyes; you would think, what a

sweet-tempered lad! So in the main he was; but you would find out that

he could be dangerous, and that (curiously) the more dangerous he was,

the sweeter his temper seemed to be. If you crossed him once, he would

stare; twice, he would laugh; three times, you would swear he was your

humble servant; but before you could cross him again he would have

knocked you down. The next moment he would give you a hand up, and

apologize; after that, so far as he was concerned, you might count him

your friend for life. The fact is, that he was one of those men who,

like kings, require a nominal fealty before they can love you with a

whole heart: it is a mere nothing. But somebody, they think, must

lead. Prosper always felt so desperately sure it must be he. That was

apt to lend a frenzy to his stroke and a cool survey to his eye (as

being able to take so much for granted), which made him a good friend

and a nasty enemy.

It also made him, as you will have occasion to see, a born fighter. He

went, indeed, through those years of his life on tiptoe, as it were,

for a fight. He had a light and springing carriage of the head, enough

to set his forelock nodding; his eye roved like a sea-bird's; his lips

often parted company, for his breath was eager. He had a trick of

laughing to himself softly as he went about his business; or else he

sang, as he was now singing. These qualities, little habits,

affectations, whatever you choose to call them, sound immaterial, but

they really point to the one thing that made him remarkable--the

curious blend of opposites in him. He blent benevolence with savagery,

reflectiveness with activity. He could think best when thought and act

might jump together, laugh most quietly when the din of swords and

horses drowned the voice, love his neighbour most sincerely when about

to cut his throat. The smell of blood, the sight of wounds, or the

flicker of blades, made him drunk; but he was one of those who grow

steady in their cups. You might count upon him at a pinch. Lastly, he

was no fool, and was disposed to credit other people with a balance of

wit.

He disliked frippery, yet withal made a brave show in the sun. His

plain black mail was covered with a surcoat of white and green linen;

over this a narrow baldrick of red bore in gold stitches his device of

a hooded falcon, and his legend on a scroll, many times repeated and

intercrossed--I bide my time. In his helmet were three red

feathers, on his shield the blazon of his house of Gai--On a field

sable, a fesse dancettée or, with a mullet for difference. He

carried no spear; for a man of his light build the sword was the arm.

Thus then, within and without, was Messire Prosper le Gai, youngest

son of old Baron Jocelyn, deceased, riding into the heart of the noon,

pleased with himself and the world, light-minded, singing of the

movement and the road.