Months had passed away since Richard Shelton made
his escape from the hands of his guardian. These months
had been eventful for England. The party of Lancaster,
which was then in the very article of death, had once
more raised its head. The Yorkists defeated and dis-
persed, their leader butchered on the field, it seemed, for
a very brief season in the winter following upon the events
already recorded, as if the House of Lancaster had finally
triumphed over its foes.

The small town of Shoreby-on-the-Till was full of the
Lancastrian nobles of the neighbourhood. Earl Rising-
ham was there, with three hundred men-at-arms; Lord
Shoreby, with two hundred; Sir Daniel himself, high in
favour and once more growing rich on confiscations
lay in a house of his own, on the main street, with three-
score men. The world had changed indeed.

It was a black, bitter cold evening in the first week of
January, with a hard frost, a high wind, and every likeli-
hood of snow before the morning.

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