"Thy SON?"

"Yes. I see I had better unfold all to thee in detail, from the beginning of my wanderings. After I had fled from my father's wrath, I first went to sunny Provence, where I found friends in the great family of the Montforts, and won the friendship of a man who has since become famous, the Earl of Leicester. A distant kinswoman of theirs, a cousin many times removed, effaced from my heart the fickle damsel who had been the cause of my disgrace in England. Poor Eveline! Never was there sweeter face or sunnier disposition! Had she lived all had been well. I had not then gone forth, abandoned to my own sinful self. But she died in giving birth to my Hubert."

"Thy son, doth he yet live?"

"I left him in the care of Simon de Montfort, and went forward to the rendezvous of the crusaders, the Isle of Malta, where, being grievously insulted by a Frenchman—during a truce of God, which had been proclaimed to the whole army—forgot all but my hot blood, struck him, thereby provoked a combat, and slew him, for which I was expelled the host, and forbidden to share in the holy war.

"So I sailed thence to Sicily—in deep dejection, repenting, all too late, my ungovernable spirit.

"It was in the Isle of Sicily that an awful judgment befell me, which has pursued me ever since, until it has blanched my locks with gray, and hollowed out these wrinkles on my brow.

"I had taken up my quarters at an inn, and was striving in vain to drown my remorse in utter recklessness, in wine and mirth, when one night, as I lay half unconscious in bed, I heard the door open. I started up and laid my hand on my sword, but melted into a sweat of fear as I saw the ghost of him I had slain, standing as if in life, his hand upon the wound my blade had made.

"'Nay,' said he, 'mortal weapons harm me not now, but see that thou fulfil for me the vow I have made. Carry my sword in person or by proxy to Jerusalem, and lay it on the altar of the Holy Sepulchre. Then I forgive thee my death.'

"The vision disappeared, but left me impressed with a sense that it was real and no dream. Hence I dared to return to Malta, and telling my story begged, but begged in vain, to be allowed to carry the sword of the man I had slain through the campaign.

"I could not even obtain the sword. It had been sent back to hang by the side of the rusty weapons his ancestors had once borne, in the hall of their distant Chateau de Fievrault.

"I returned to Provence, revisited the tomb of my Eveline, saw my boy, sought absolution, made many prayers, but could not shake off the phantom. It was on a Friday I slew my foe, and on each Friday night he appeared. The young Simon de Montfort was about to form another band of crusaders, and he allowed me to accompany him, with the result I have described. During my stay in the monastery at Acre the phantom troubled me not, and as I have already said, I would fain have remained there, but when they heard my tale they bade me return and fulfil my duties to my kindred, and stir up others to come to the aid of the Holy Land, since I was physically incapable of ever bearing arms again.

"But I shall even yet fulfil my vow, and the vow of the man I slew, through my boy, when he has gained his spurs. My sinful steps are not permitted to press that soil, once trodden by those blessed feet, nailed for our salvation to the holy rood. Hubert will live and bear the sword of the slain Sieur de Fievrault, sans peur et sans reproche. Then I may lay me down in peace and take my rest."

"Will thou not see my husband?"

"I cannot reveal myself here in this castle to any one but thee, and as my tormentor pays his visits again, I will betake me to the Priory of Lewes."

"And must thou leave thy ancestral halls, and bury thyself again, my brother?"

"I must. My task is done. I came but to feast my eyes with the sight of thee, and to tell thee that thy nephew, the true heir of Walderne, lives, satisfied that thou wilt not now allow him to be defrauded of his rights."

"Why not reveal thyself to my husband?"

"I cannot—at least not in this house; but in the morn, after I have parted for Lewes. tell him all."

"And what proofs shall I give if he ask them?"

"Let him seek me at Lewes or, better still, refer to Simon de Montfort, who is the guardian of the boy, and has him in safe keeping at Kenilworth."

"Sybil," cried a voice.

"It is my husband. I must go. Farewell, dearly loved, unhappy brother."

And she departed, leaving him alone in the chapel.

Hours had passed by, the inmates of the castle at Walderne all slept, still as the sleeping woods around, save only the watchman on the walls, for in those days of nightly rapine and daily violence no castle or house of any pretensions dispensed with such a guard.

Save only the watcher on the walls, and a lonelier watcher in the chapel. For there, in the sanctuary his sister had erected, knelt the returned prodigal, unknown to all save that sister. His heart was full of deep emotion, as well it might be. And thus he mused:

"This chapel was not here in my father's time. There were few lessons to be learnt then, save those of strife and violence. What wonder that when he set me the example, my young blood ran too hotly in my veins, and that I finished my career of violence and riot by slaying the rival who stood in my path? Yet was it done, not in cold blood but in fair fight. Still, he was my cousin, a favourite of my sire, who never forgave me, but drove me from home to make reparation in the holy wars. Then on the way to the land of expiation I must needs again stain my sword with Christian blood, and that on a day when it was sacrilege to draw sword.

"But I repent, I repent. O Lord, let the Blood which flowed on that very day down the Holy Rood blot out my sins, atone for my transgressions.

"Nay, he appears, as oft before, and stands before me as when I transfixed him on the quay at Malta.

"Avaunt, unquiet spirit. My feet have pressed the soil hallowed by the Sacred Blood. Avaunt, for I appeal from thy malice to God. Was it not thou who didst provoke, and wouldst fain have slain me? What was my act but one of self defence, defence first of honour, then of life?"

Here he paused, as if listening.

"What dost thou say? I give thee rest. Let my son take the sword from thy ancestral hall, and wield it in the holy war in thy name. Then thy vow will be fulfilled, and thou wilt cumber earth no longer.

"Well, we shall see! But can I send him to that distant land? He may suffer as I.

"No! no! Son of my love! It may not be.

"Ah, thou departest. It is well. Avaunt thee, poor ghost! Avaunt thee."

So the night sped away, and when the gates of the castle opened at sunrise, the palmer passed through them and took the road for Lewes.

We need hardly say that, in the course of the day after the ill-fated Roger had departed for Lewes, to bury his sorrows and his sins within the hallowed walls of the Priory of Saint Pancras, the Lady Sybil made a full revelation of all the circumstances of his visit to her husband, Sir Nicholas Harengod.

There was not a moment's doubt in the mind of that worthy knight as to the proper course to be pursued. Roger must be left to carry out his own decision—as the most convenient to all parties concerned—and the son must at once be brought home and acknowledged as the true heir of Walderne, cum Icklesham, cum Dene, and I wot not what else. As for poor Drogo, he must be content with the patrimony of Sir Nicholas—the manor of Harengod.

So Sir Nicholas first sought an interview with his brother-in-law, Roger, at the priory. He found him on the point of being admitted to the novitiate, and then started post haste across the country—northward for Kenilworth—where he arrived in due course, and was soon closeted with the mighty earl, to whom he revealed the whole story of the resurrection of Sir Roger of Walderne.

It was indeed a resurrection. At first the earl hardly credited its possibility; but anon with joy received it, and gave his full consent for Sir Nicholas to take Hubert away for a time, that he might make acquaintance with the home of his ancestors, and seek his father at Lewes.

Much more conversation passed between the knight and the earl, but we shall have occasion to develop its results as our narrative proceeds.

So we shall leave our readers to picture the delight and wonder of Hubert, the jealousy of Drogo, and much besides, while we go to Oxford to see Martin.



Chapter 7: Martin's First Day At Oxford.

It was a lovely morning in the Eastertide of 1256 when young Martin looked forth from the window of his hostel at Oxford on the quaint streets, the stately towers of the semi-monastic city. He was bound, of course, as a dutiful son of Mother Church, to attend the early service at one of the thirteen churches, after which, still at a very early hour, he was invited to break his fast with the great Franciscan, Adam de Maresco, to whom his friend the chaplain had strongly commended him. So he put on his scholar's gown, and went to the finest church then existing in Oxford, the Abbey Church of Oseney.

This magnificent abbey had been endowed by Robert D'Oyley, nephew of the Norman Conqueror, mentioned in another of our Chronicles {12}. It was situated on an island, formed by various branches of the Isis, in the western suburbs of the city, and extended as far as from the present Oseney Mill to St. Thomas' Church. The abbey church, long since destroyed, was lofty and magnificent, containing twenty-four altars, a central tower of great height, and a western tower. Here King Henry III passed a Christmas with "reverent mirth."

There was a large gathering of monks, friars, and students; the quiet sober side of Oxford predominated in the early dawn, and Martin thought he had never seen so orderly a city. He was destined to change his ideas, or at least modify them, before he laid his head on his pillow that night.

Before leaving the church Martin ascended to the summit of the abbey tower, the wicket gate of which stood invitingly open, in order to survey the city and country, and gain a general idea of his future home. Below him, in the sweet freshness of the early morn, the branches of the Isis surrounded the abbey precincts, the river being well guarded by stone work and terraces, so that it could not at flood time encroach upon the abbey. Neither before the days of locks could or did such floods occur as we have now, the water got away more readily, and the students could not sail upon "Port Meadow" as upon a lake, in the winter and spring, as they do at the present day.

Beyond the abbey rose the church and college of "Saint George in the Castle," that is within the precincts of the fortress, and the great mound thrown up by Queen Ethelflaed, a sister of Alfred, now called the Jew's Mount {13}, and the two towers of the Norman Castle seemed to make one group with church and college. The town church of Saint Martin rose from a thickly-built group of houses, at a spot called Quatre Voies, where the principal streets crossed, which name we corrupt into Carfax. He counted the towers of thirteen churches, including the historic shrine of Saint Frideswide, which afterwards developed into the College of Christchurch, and later still furnished the Cathedral of the diocese.

Around lay a wild land of heath and forest, with cultivated fields very infrequently interspersed; the moors of Cowley, the woods of Shotover and Bagley; and farther still, the forests of Nuneham, inhabited even then by the Harcourts, who still hold the ancestral demesne. Descending, he made his way to Greyfriars, as the Franciscan house was called, encountering many groups who were already wending their way to lecture room, or, like Martin, returning to break their fast after morning chapel, which then meant early mass at one of the many churches, for only in three or four instances had corporate bodies chapels of their own.

These groups were very unlike modern undergraduates; as a rule they were much younger people, of the same ages as the upper forms in our public schools, from fourteen or fifteen years upwards; mere boys, living in crowded hostels, fighting and quarrelling with all the sweet "abandon" of early youth, sometimes begging masterfully, for licenses to beg were granted to poor students, living, it might be, in the greatest poverty, but still devoted to learning.

At length Martin arrived at the house of the Franciscans, where he was eventually to lodge, but they had no room for him at this moment, hence he had been sent to a hostelry, licensed to take lodgers; much to the regret of Adam de Maresco. But he could not show partiality. Each newcomer must take his turn, according to the date of the entry of his name. The friary was on the marshy ground between the walls and the Isis, on land bestowed upon them in charity, amongst the huts of the poor whom they loved. At first huts of mud and timber, as rough and rude as those around, arose within the fence and ditch which they drew and dug around their habitations, but the necessities of the climate had driven them to build in stone, for the damp climate, the mists and fogs from the Isis, soon rotted away their woodwork. And so Martin found a very simple, but very substantial building in the Norman architecture of the period. The first "Provincial" of the Greyfriars had persuaded Robert Grosseteste, afterwards the great Bishop of Lincoln, to lecture at the school they founded in their Oxford house, and all his powerful influence was exercised to gain them a sound footing in the University. They deserved it, for their schools attained a reputation throughout Christendom, so nobly was the work, which Grosseteste began, carried on by his scholar and successor, Adam de Maresco.

And they had helped to make Oxford, as it was then, the second city of importance in England, and only second to Paris amongst the learned cities of the world.

Martin was shown along a cloister looking through the most sombre of Norman arches, upon a greensward. The doors of many cells opened upon it. He was told to knock at one of them, and a deep voice replied, "Enter in the name of the Lord."

It was a large, plain room, with a vaulted ceiling lighted by lancet windows and scantily furnished; rough oaken benches, a plain heavy table, covered with parchments and manuscripts: in one recess a Prie-Dieu beneath a crucifix, and under the fald stool a skull, with the words "memento mori," three or four chairs with painfully straight backs, a cupboard for books (manuscripts) and parchments, another for vestments ecclesiastical or collegiate. This was all which cumbered the bare floor. At the corner of the room a spiral stone staircase led to the bed chamber.

Before the table stood an aged and venerable man, in the gray clothing of the Franciscans, sweet in face, pleasant in manner, dignified in hearing, in reputation without a stain, in learning unsurpassed.

Martin bowed reverently before him, and gave him the chaplain's letter.

"I had heard of thy arrival, my son. I trust thou hast found comfortable lodgings at the hostel I recommended?"

"I have slept well, my father."

"And hast not forgotten thy duty to God?"

"I should do discredit to my teacher at Kenilworth if I did. I have been to the abbey church."

"He is a man of God, and I doubt not thou art worthy of his love, for he writes of thee as a father might of a much-loved son. But now, my son, we must break our fast. Come to the refectorium with me."

Passing into the cloister they came to the dining hall or "refectorium." Three long tables, a fourth where the elders and professors sat, on a raised platform at right angles to the others. A hundred men and boys had already assembled, and after a Latin grace, breakfast began. It was not a fast day, so the fare was substantial, although quite plain—porridge, pease soup, bread, meat, cheese, and ale. The most sober youth of the university were there, men who meant eventually to assume the gray habit, and carry the Gospel over wilderness and forest, in the slums of towns, or amongst the heathen, counting peril as nought. There was no buzz of conversation, only from a stone pulpit the reader read a chapter from the Gospels.

After this was done, grace after meat was said, and the elders first departed, the great master taking Martin back with him into his cell.

"And now, my son, what dost thou come to Oxford for?"

"To learn that I may afterwards teach."

"And what dost thou desire to become?"

"One of your holy brotherhood, a brother of Saint Francis."

"Dost thou know what that means, my son? Scanty clothing, hard fare, the absence of all that men most value, the welcoming of perils and hardships as thy daily companions, that thou mayst take thy life in thy hand, and find the sheep of Christ amongst the wolves."

"All this I have been told."

"Well, my son, thou art yet new to the world. At Oxford thou will see it, and will make thy choice better when thou knowest both what thou rejectest and what thou seekest. Meanwhile, guard thy youthful steps; avoid quarrelling, fighting, drinking, dicing; mortify thine own flesh—"

"Do these temptations await me in Oxford?"

"The air has been full of them, since Henry brought the thousand students from the gay university of Paris hither. Thou wilt soon see, and gauge thy power of resisting temptation. I would not say, stay indoors. The virtue which has never been tested is nought."

"Where do the brethren chiefly work for God?"

"In the noisome lazar houses, amongst the lepers, in the shambles of Newgate, here on the swamps between the walls and the Thames, where men live and suffer. We do not enter the brotherhood to build grand buildings. We sleep on bare pallets without pillows."

"Why without pillows?" asked Martin, wondering.

"We need no little mountains to lift our heads to heaven. None but the sick go shod."

"Is it not dangerous to health to go without shoes in the winter?"

"God protects us," said the master, smiling sweetly. "One of our friars found a pair of shoes last winter on a frosty morning, and wore them to matins. At night he had a dream. He dreamt that he was travelling on the work of God, and that at a dangerous pass in the forest of the Cotswolds, robbers leapt out upon him, crying, 'Kill, kill.'

"'I am a friar,' he shrieked.

"'You lie,' they replied, 'for you go shod.'

"He awoke and threw the shoes out of the window."

"And did he catch cold afterwards?"

Another smile.

"No, my son, all these things go by habit."

"Shall I begin to leave off my shoes?"

"Not yet, your vocation is not settled. You may yet choose the world."

"I never shall."

"Poor boy, you are young and cannot tell. Perhaps before nightfall a different light may be thrown upon your good resolutions."

A pause ensued. At length Martin went on, "At least you have books. I love books."

"At first we had not even them, but later on the Holy Father thought that those who contend with the unbelieving learned should be learned themselves. They who pour forth must suck in."

"When did the Order come to Oxford?"

"Thirty years agone. When we first landed at Dover we made our way to London, the home of commerce, and Oxford, the home of learning. The two first gray brethren lost their way in the woods of Nuneham, on their road to the city, and afraid of the floods, which were out, and of the dark night, which made it difficult to avoid the water, took refuge in a grange, which belonged to the Abbey of Abingdon, where dwelt a small branch of the great Benedictine Brotherhood. Their clothes were ragged and torn with thorns, and they only spoke broken English, so the monks took them for the travelling jugglers of the day, and welcomed them with great hospitality. But after supper they all assembled in the common room, and bade the supposed jugglers show their craft.

"'We be not jugglers, we be poor brethren of our Lord and Saint Francis.'

"Now the monks were very jealous of the new Order, so unlike themselves, in its renunciation of ease and luxury, and in very spite they called them knaves and impostors, and kicked them out of doors."

"What did they do?"

"They slept under a tree, and the angels comforted them. The next day they got to Oxford and began their work. The plague had been raging in the poorer quarters of the city, and they brought the joy of the Gospel to those miserable people. At length their numbers increased, and they built this house wherein we dwell."

In such conversation as this Martin passed a happy hour, then went to the first lecture he attended, in the schools attached to the friary, where the great works of Augustine and Aquinas formed the text books; no Creek as yet. He passed from Latin to Logic, as the handmaid of theology. The great thinker Aristotle supplied the method, not the language or matter, and became the ally of Christianity, under the rendering of a learned brother.

Then followed the noontide meal, a stroll with some younger companions of his own age, to whom he had been specially introduced, which led them so far afield that they only returned in time for the vesper service, at the friary.

After the service Martin should have returned to his lodgings at once, but, tempted by the novelty of all he saw about him, he lingered in the streets, and saw cause to alter his opinion of the extreme propriety of the students. Some of them were playing at pitch and toss in the thievish corners. At least half a dozen pairs of antagonists were settling their quarrels with their fists or with quarterstaves, in various secluded nooks. Songs, gay rather than grave, not to say a trifle licentious, resounded; while once or twice he was asked: "Are you North or South?"—a query to which he hardly knew how to reply, Kenilworth being north and Sussex south of Oxford.

But the penalty of not answering was a rude jostling, which tried his temper sadly, and awoke the old Adam within him, which our readers remember only slumbered. He looked through the open door of a tavern. It was full of the young reprobates, and the noise and turmoil was deafening.

As he stood by the door, three or four grave-looking men came along.

"We must get them all home, or there will be bloodshed tonight," Martin heard one say.

"It will be difficult," replied the other.

Into the tavern they turned, and the noise suddenly subsided.

"What do ye here, ye reprobates, that ye stand drinking, dicing, quarrelling? To your hostels, every one of you," said the first.

Martin expected scornful resistance, and was surprised to see that instead, all the rapscallions evacuated the place, and the "proctors," as we should now call them, remained to remonstrate with the host, whose license they threatened to withdraw.

"How can I help it?" he said. "They be too many for me."

"If you cannot keep order, seek another trade," was the stern response. "We cannot have the morals of our scholars corrupted."

"Bless you, sirs, it is they who corrupt me. I don't know half the wickedness they do."

Our readers need not believe him, the proctors did not.

But Martin took the warning, and was bent on getting home, only he lost his way, and could not find it again. It was not for want of asking; but the young scholars he met preferred lies to truth, in the mere frolic of puzzling a newcomer, and sent him first to Frideswide's, thence to the East Gate, near Saint Clement's Chapel, and he was making his way back with difficulty along the High Street when he heard an awful confusion and uproar about the "Quatre Voies" (Carfax) Conduit.

"Down with the lubberly North men!"

"Split their skulls, though they be like those of the bullocks their sires drive!"

"Down with the moss troopers!"

"Boves boreales!"

And answering cries:

"Down with the lisping, smooth-tongued Southerners!"

"Australes asini!"

"Eheu!"

"Slay me every one with a burr in his mouth." (An allusion to the Northumbrian accent.)

"Down with the mincing fools who have got no r.r.r's"

"Burrrrn them, you should say."

"Frangite capita."

"Percutite porcos boreales."

"Vim inferre australibus asinis."

"Sternite omnes Gallos."

So they shouted imprecations in Latin and English, and eke in French, for there were many Gauls about.

What chance of getting through the fighting, drunken, riotous mobs? Quarterstaves were rising and falling upon heads and shoulders. No deadlier weapons were used, but showers of missiles from time to time descended, unsavoury or otherwise.

At length the superior force of the Northern men prevailed, and Martin, whose blood was strangely stirred, saw a slim and delicate youth fighting so bravely with a huge Northern ox ("bos borealis," he called him) that for a time he stayed the rush, until the whole Southern line gave way and Martin, entangled with the rout, got driven down Saint Mary's Lane, opposite the church of that name, an earlier building on the site of the present University church.

At an angle of the street, where another lane entered in, the young Southerner before mentioned turned to bay, and with three or four more of his countryfolk kept the narrow way against scores of pursuers.

Martin could not restrain himself any longer. He saw three or four men pressed by dozens, and rushed with all the fire of his generous and impetuous nature to their aid, in time to intercept a blow aimed at the young leader:

Well could he brandish such weapons, and he stood side by side and settled many a "bos borealis," or northern bullock, with as much zest as ever a southern butcher. But at length his leader fell, and Martin stood diverting the strokes aimed at his fallen companion, who was stunned for the moment, until a rough hearty voice cried out:

"Let them alone, they have had enough. 'Tis cowardly to fight a dozen to one. Listen, the row is on in the Quatre Voies again. We shall find more there."

The two were left alone.

Martin raised his wounded companion, whose head was bleeding profusely.

"Art thou hurt much?"

"Not so very much, only dazed. I shall soon be better. I am close home."

"Let me support you. Lean on me, I will see you safe."

"You came just in time. Where did you come from? I never saw you before—and where did you learn to handle the cudgel so well?"

"From the woods of merry Sussex, and later on, the tilt yard of Kenilworth."

"Oh, you are a true Southerner, then. So am I, the second son of Waleran de Monceux of Herst, in the Andredsweald.

"Here we are at home—come in to Saint Dymas' Hall."



Chapter 8: Hubert At Lewes Priory.

William de Warrenne and Gundrada his wife, the daughter of the mighty Conqueror, were travelling on the Continent and made a pilgrimage to the famous Abbey of Clairvaux, presided over by the great abbot, poet, and preacher of the age, Saint Bernard. So much did they admire all they saw and heard, so sweet was the contrast of monastic peace to their life of ceaseless turmoil, that they determined to found such a house of God on their newly-acquired domains in Sussex, after the fashion of Clairvaux.

Already they had superseded the wooden Saxon church of Saint Pancras, the boy martyr of ancient Rome, which they found at Lewes, by a stone building, and now upon its site they began to erect a mightier edifice by far, upon proportions which would entail the labour of generations.

A wondrous and beautiful priory arose; it covered forty acres, its church was as big as a cathedral, a magnificent cruciform pile—one hundred and fifty feet long, sixty-five feet in height from pavement to roof; there were twenty-four massive pillars in the nave {14}, each thirty feet in circumference; but it was not until the time of their grandson, the third earl, that it was dedicated. Nor indeed were its comely proportions enhanced by the two western towers until the very date of our tale, nearly two centuries later. Then it lived on in its beauty, a joy to successive generations, until the vandals of Thomas Cromwell, trained to devastation, so completely destroyed it in a few brief weeks that the next generation had almost forgotten its site {15}.

The first monks were foreigners, by the advice of Lanfranc, and, as a great favour, Saint Bernard sent three of his own brethren from Clairvaux, who taught the good people of Lewes to sing "Jesu dulcis memoria." Loth though we are to confess it, there can be little doubt that the foreigners were a great advance in learning and piety upon the monks before the Conquest; the first prior, Lanzo, was conspicuous for his many virtues and sweet ascetic disposition.

There the bones of the founders were laid to rest beneath the gorgeous fabric they had founded, and there they had hoped to await the day of doom and righteous retribution. But alas! poor Normans! in the sixteenth century old Harry pulled the grand church down above their heads; in the nineteenth the navvies, making the railroad, disinterred their bones. But they respected the dead, the names William and Gundrada were upon the coffins which their profane mattocks unearthed, and the reader may see them at Southover Church.

In the freshness of a May morning Hubert and his new uncle, Sir Nicholas Harengod, dismounted at the gate of the priory, having left their train at the hostelry up in the town.

"Canst thou tell us whether the brother of Saint John, Roger erst of Walderne, is tarrying within?"

"Certes he is, but just now he heareth the Chapter Mass—few services or offices doth he miss, and like Saint James of old, his knees are worn as hard as the knees of camels."

"We would fain see him—here is his son."

"By our lady, not to mention Saint Pancras, a well-favoured stripling. And thou?"

"I am Sir Nicholas of Walderne," said he of that query, with some importance, which was quite lost upon the janitor.

"Walderne! Some place in the woods may be. Well, get you, worshipful sirs, to the hospitium, where we feed all hungry folk at the hour of noon, and I will strive to find the good brother."

The splendid group of buildings, of which only a few half-demolished walls remain, rose before them, on each side of the great quadrangle which they now entered; the chapter house, where the brethren met for counsel; the refectory, where they fed; the dormitory, where they slept; the scriptory, where they copied those beautiful manuscripts which antiquarians love to obtain; the infirmary, where the sick were tended; and lastly, the hospitium or guest house, where all travellers and pilgrims were welcome.

They entered the hospitium, where the noontide meal was about to be served. It was plain but ample; solid joints, huge loaves, ale, and even wine in moderation. Some twenty sat down to the hospitable board.

During the "noon meat" a homily was read. When the meal was over a lay brother came and beckoned Sir Nicholas and Hubert to follow him. He led them to the cloisters and knocked at the door of a cell.

"Come in," said a deep voice.

Could this be the father Hubert had so longed to know, clad in a long dark dress, with haggard and worn features, which, however, still preserved their native nobility?

At the sight of his visitors he showed an emotion he vainly endeavoured to repress, under an affectation of self control. He greeted Sir Nicholas kindly, but embraced his fair son, while tears he could not repress streamed down his worn cheeks.

"This is then my Hubert. Ah, how like thy short-lived mother! She lives again in thee, my boy."

"But, my father, I trust thy courage and valour have descended to me also. They do not call me girlish at Kenilworth."

"Such as I have to bequeath is, I trust, thine. Thy mother came of a race more addicted to lute and harp than sword or spear. It was the worse for them in their dire need, when the stern father of him who shelters thee harried their land with fire and sword.

"But we waste time. Sit down and let the eyes of the father, weary of the world, gaze upon the boy in whom he lives again."

For a few moments there was silence, during which Roger seemed struggling to overcome an emotion which overpowered him.

"I was thinking of the sunny land of Provence, and was there again with one dearly loved, who was only spared to me a few short months. She died in giving thee birth, my Hubert; had she lived, I had not become the wreck I am.

"So thou desirest to go forth into the world, my son?"

"As thou didst also, my father."

"But I trust under other auspices. Tell me not of my giddy youth. Dearly did I pay the price of youthful folly and unseemly strife. Thou, too, my boy, must buy experience; God grant more cheaply than I bought mine."

There he shuddered.

"My boy, hast thou ever wished to be a warrior of the Cross—a crusader?"

"Often, oh how often. In that way I would fain serve God."

The monk soldier smiled.

"And how wouldst thou attempt to convert the infidel?"

"At the first blasphemy he uttered I would cut him down, cleave him to the chine."

"Such our knights generally hold to be the better way, for their arms were readier than their tongues, but I never heard that they saved the souls of the heathen thereby."

"No one wants to see them in heaven, I should think. Let them go to their own place."

"It is wrong, I know it is. It must be. There is a better way—come with me, boy, I would fain show thee something."

He led the wondering boy into the garden of the monastery. There in the centre arose an artificial mount, and upon it stood a cross—the figure of the Redeemer, bending, as in death, from the rood. It was called "The Calvary," and men came there to pray.

The father bent his knee—the son did the same.

"Now, my boy, whom did He die for but His enemies? Even for His murderers He cried, 'Father, forgive them!' And you would fain slay them."

Hubert was silent.

"When thou art struck—"

"No one ever struck me without getting it back, at least no boy of my own age," interrupted Hubert.

"And He said, 'When thou art smitten on one cheek, turn the other to the smiter.'"

"But, my father, must we all be like that? I am sure I couldn't be that sort of Christian; even the good earl Simon is not, nor Martin either. Perhaps the chaplain is—do you think so?"

"Who is Martin?"

"The best boy I know, but I have seen him fight."

"Well, and thou may'st fight nay, must, as the world goes, in a good cause, and there is a sword which thou must bear unsullied through the conflict. But if thou avengest thine own private wrongs, as I did, or bearest rancour against thy personal foes, never wilt thou deliver me."

"Deliver thee?"

"Yes, my child. I am under a curse, because on the very day of the great sacrifice on the Cross, on a Friday, I slew a man who had insulted me. He died unhouselled, unanointed, unannealed, and his ghost ever haunts my midnight hour."

"Even here, in this holy, consecrated place?"

"Even in the very church itself."

"Can any one else see it?"

"They have never done so. Perhaps as thou art of my blood, it might be permitted thee."

"I will try. Let me stay this night with thee, and watch by thy side in the church."

"Thou shalt be blessed in the deed. I will ask Sir Nicholas to tarry the night if he can do so."

"Or I might ride back alone tomorrow."

"The forest is dangerous; the outlaws abound."

"That for the outlaws, hujus facio;" and Hubert snapped his fingers. It was about the only scrap of Latin he cared for.

The father smiled sadly.

"Come, we are keeping Sir Nicholas waiting;" and they returned to the great quadrangle, where they found that worthy striding up and down with some impatience.

"We must be off at once, brother, Hubert and I. The woods are not over safe after nightfall."

"I must ask thee to spare me my son a while. I would fain make his further acquaintance."

"Come back with us to Walderne, then. The lad would soon die of the gloom of a monastery."

"I spent four years in one, and the earl found me alive at the end," said Hubert.

"Nay, my brother, I may not leave the priory now."

"But how long wilt thou keep the boy?"

"Only till tomorrow."

"Well, I may tarry till tomorrow, but not at the monastery. My old crony, the De Warrenne up at the castle, will lodge me, and I will return for the lad after the Chapter Mass, at nine."

Of all forms of architecture the Norman appears to the writer the most awe inspiring. Its massive round pillars, its bold, but simple arch, have an effect upon the mind more imposing and solemnising, if we may coin the word, than the more florid architecture of the decorated period, which may aptly be described as "Gothic run to seed." Such a stern and simple structure was the earlier priory church of Lewes, in the days of which we write.

A little before midnight two forms entered the south transept by a little wicket door. There was a black darkness over the heavens that night, and a high wind moaned and shrieked about the upper turrets of the stately fane. Oh, how solemn was the inner aspect at that dread hour, lighted only by the seven lamps, which, typical of the Seven Spirits of God, burned in the choir, pendent from the roof.

One timorous glance Hubert gave into the dark recesses of the aisles and transept, into the dim space overhead, as if he almost expected to hear the flapping of ghostly pinions in the portentous gloom. A sense of mystery daunted his spirit as he followed his sire by the light of a feeble lamp, carried in the hand, amidst the tall columns which rose like tree trunks around, each shaft appearing to rise farther than the sight could penetrate, ere it gave birth to the arch from its summit. Dead crusaders lay around in stone, and strove with grim visage to draw the sword and smite the worshippers of Mohammed, as if in the very act they had been petrified by a new Gorgon's head. The steps of the intruders seemed sacrilegious, breaking the solemn stillness of the night as the father led the son into the chapel of the patron saint of his order:

Who propped the Virgin in her faint, The loved Apostle John.

There the horror-stricken Hubert heard the dismal tale which we have already related, and that his unhappy father believed himself yet visited each night by the ghost of the man he had slain. And also that it was fixed in his poor diseased brain that the apparition would not rest until the crusade, vowed by the Sieur de Fievrault, but cut short by his fall, should be made by proxy, and that the proxy must be one sans peur et sans reproche. And that this reparation made, the poor spirit, according to the belief of the age, released from purgatorial fires, might enter Paradise and reappear no more between the hours of midnight and cock crowing to trouble the living.

"What an absurd story," the sceptic may say. No doubt it is to us, but a man must live in his own age, and there was nought absurd or improbable to young Hubert in it all.

And when the weird tale was finished, and the hour of midnight tolled boom! boom! boom! from the tower above, every stroke sent a thrill through the heart of the youth. That dread hour, when, as men thought, the powers of darkness had the world to themselves, when a thousand ghosts shrieked on the hollow wind, when midnight hags swept through the tainted air, and goblins gibbered in sepulchres.

Just then Hubert caught his father's glance, and it made each separate hair erect itself:

Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.

"Father," cried the boy, "what art thou gazing at? what aileth thee? I see nought amiss."

Words came from the father's lips, not in reply to his son, but as if to some object unseen by all besides.

"Yes, unhappy ghost, I may dare thy livid terrors now. My son, thy proxy, is by my side, pure and shameless, brave and trustworthy. He shall carry thy sword to the holy soil and dye it 'deep in Paynim blood.' Then thou and I may rest in peace."

"Father, I see nought."

"Not there, between those pillars?"

"What is it?"

"A dead man, with a sword wound in his open breast, which he displays. His eyes live, yea, and the wound lives."

"No, father, there is nothing."

"Then go and stand between those pillars, and prove it to me to be void."

Hubert hesitated. He would sooner have fought a hundred boyish battles with fist, quarterstaff, or even deadly weapons—but this—

"Ah, thou darest not. Nay, I blame thee not, yet thou didst say there was nothing."

Hubert could not resist that pleading tone in which the sire seemed to ask release from his own delusion. He went with determined step, and stood on the indicated spot.

"He is gone. He fled before thee. The omen is good. Thou shalt deliver thy sire—let us pray together."

Sire and son knelt until the first note of the matin song just before daybreak (it was the month of May) broke the utterance of the father and, we fear we must own it, the sleep of the son.

Domine labia mea aperies Et os meum annuntiabit laudem Tuam.

The sombre-robed monks were in the choir, the organ rolling out its deep notes in accompaniment to the plain song of the Venite exultemus, which then, as now, preceded the psalms for the day. Then came the hymn:

Lo night and clouds and darkness wrap The world in dark array; The morning dawns, the sun breaks in, Hence, hence, ye shades—away {16}!

"Come, Hubert, dear son, worthy of thy sainted mother. We will praise Him, too, for He has lifted the darkness from my heart."



Chapter 9: The Other Side Of The Picture.

The young scion of the house of Herstmonceux led Martin a few steps down the lane opposite Saint Mary's Church, until they came to the vaulted doorway of a house of some pretensions. Its walls were thick, its windows deep set and narrow. Dull in external appearance, it did not seem to be so within, for sounds of riotous mirth proceeded from many a window left open for admittance of air. The great door was shut, but a little wicket was on the latch, and Ralph de Monceux opened it, saying:

"Come and do me the honour of a short visit, and give me the latest news from dear old Sussex."

"What place is this?" replied Martin.

"Beef Halt, so called because of the hecatombs of oxen we consume."

Martin smiled.

"What is the real name?"

"It should be 'Ape Hall,' for here we ape men of learning, whereas little is done but drinking, dicing, and fighting. But you will find our neighbours in the next street have monopolised that title, with yet stronger claims."

"But what do the outsiders call you?"

"Saint Dymas' Halt, since we never pay our debts. But the world calls it Le Oriole {17} Hostel. A better name just now is 'Liberty Hall,' for we all do just as we like. There is no king in Israel."

So speaking, he lifted the latch, and saluted a gigantic porter:

"Holloa, Magog! hast thou digested the Woodstock deer yet?"

"Not so loud, my young sir. We may be heard." He paused, but put his hand knowingly to the neck just under the left ear.

"Pshaw, he that is born to die in his bed can never be hanged. Where is Spitfire?"

"Here," said a sharp-speaking voice, coming from a precocious young monkey in a servitor's dress.

"Get me a flagon of canary, and we will wash down the remains of the pasty."

"But strangers are not admitted after curfew," said the porter.

"And I must be getting to my lodgings," said Martin.

"Tush, tush, didn't you hear that this is Liberty Hall?

"Shut your mouth, Magog—here is something to stop it. This young warrior just knocked down a bos borealis, who strove to break my head. Shall I not offer him bread and salt in return?"

The porter offered no further opposition, for the speaker slipped a coin into his palm as he continued:

"Come this way, this is my den. Not that way, that is spelunca latronum, a den of robbers."

"Holloa! here is Ralph de Monceux, and with a broken head, as usual.

"Where didst thou get that, Master Ralph, roaring Ralph?"

Such sounds came from the spelunca latronum."

"At the Quatre Voies, fighting for your honour against a drove of northern oxen."

"And whom hast thou brought with thee to help thee mend it?"

"The fellow who knocked down the bos who gave it me, as deftly as any butcher."

"Let us see him."

"What name shall I give thee?" whispered Ralph.

"Martin."

"Martin of—?"

"Martin from Kenilworth," said our bashful hero, blushing.

"Thou didst say thou wert of Sussex?"

"So I am, but I was adopted into the earl's household three years agone."

"Then he is Northern," said a listener.

"No, he came from Sussex."

"Say where? no tricks upon gentlemen."

"Michelham Priory."

"Michelham Priory. Ah! an acolyte! Tapers, incense, and albs."

"Acolyte be hanged. He does not fight like one at all events."

"Come up into my den.

"Come, Hugh, Percy, Aylmer, Richard, Roger, and we will discuss the matter deftly over a flagon of canary with eke a flask or two of sack, in honour of our new acquaintance."

"Nay," said Martin, "now I have seen you safe home, I must go. It is past curfew. I am a stranger, and should be at my lodgings."

"We will see thee safely home, and improve the occasion by cracking a few more bovine skulls if we meet them, the northern burring brutes. Their lingo sickens me, but here we are."

So speaking, he opened the door of the vaulted chamber he called his "den." It was sparingly furnished, and bore no likeness to the sort of smoking divan an undergrad of the tone of Ralph would affect now in Oxford. Plain stove, floor strewn with rushes, rude tapestry around the walls, with those uncouth faces and figures worked thereon which give antiquarians a low idea of the personal appearance of the people of the day, a solid table, upon which a bear might dance without breaking it, two or three stools, a carved cabinet, a rude hearth and chimney piece, a rough basin and ewer of red ware in deal setting, a pallet bed in a recess.

And the students, the undergraduates of the period, were worth studying. One had a black eye, another a plastered head, a third an arm in a sling, a fourth a broken nose. Martin stared at them in amazement.

"We had a tremendous fight here last night. The Northerners besieged us in our hostel. We made a sally and levelled a few of the burring brutes before the town guard came up and spoiled the fun. What a pity we can't fight like gentlemen with swords and battle axes!"

"Why not, if you must fight at all?" said Martin, who had been taught at Kenilworth to regard fists and cudgels as the weapons of clowns.

"Because, young greenhorn," said Hugh, "he who should bring a sword or other lethal weapon into the University would shortly be expelled by alma mater from her nursery, according to the statutes for that case made and provided."

"But why do you come here, if you love fighting better than learning? There is plenty of fighting in the world."

"Some come because they are made to come, others from a vocation for the church, like thyself perhaps, others from an inexplicable love of books; you should hear us when our professor Asinus Asinorum takes us in class.

"Amo, amas, amat, see me catch a rat. Rego, regis, regit, let me sweat a bit."

"Tace, no more Latin till tomorrow. Here is a venison pasty from a Woodstock deer, smuggled into the town beneath a load of hay, under the very noses of the watch."

"Who shot it?"

"Mad Hugh and I."

"Where did you get the load of hay from?"

"Oh, a farmer's boy was driving it into town. We knocked him down, then tied him to a tree. It didn't hurt him much, and we left him a walnut for his supper. Then Hugh put on his smock and other ragtags, and hiding the deer under the hay, drove it straight to the door, and Magog, who loves the smell of venison, took it in, but we made him buy the bulk of the carcase."

"How much did he give?"

"A rose noble, and a good pie out of the animal into the bargain."

"And what did you do with the cart?"

"Hugh put on the smock again, and drove it outside the northern gate, past 'Perilous Hall,' then gave the horse a cut or two of the whip, and left it to find its way home to Woodstock if it could."

"A good thing you are here with your necks only their natural length. The king's forester would have hung you all three."

"Only he couldn't catch us. We have led him many a dance before now."

When the reader considers that killing the king's deer was a hanging matter in those days, he will not think these young Oxonians behind their modern successors in daring, or, as he may call it, foolhardiness.

Martin was hungry, the smell of the pasty was very appetising, and neither he nor any one else said any more until the pie had been divided upon six wooden platters, and all had eaten heartily, washing it down with repeated draughts from a huge silver flagon of canary, one of the heirlooms of Herstmonceux; and afterwards they cleansed their fingers, which they had used instead of forks, in a large central finger glass—nay, bowl of earthenware.

"More drink, I have a jorum of splendid sack in you cupboard," cried their host when the flagon was empty.

"Now a song, every one must give a song.

"Hugh, you begin." I love to lurk in the gloom of the wood Where the lithesome stags are roaming, And to send a sly shaft just to tickle their ribs Ere I smuggle them home in the gloaming.

"Just the case with this one we have been eating. But that measure is slow, let me give you one," said Ralph.

Come, drink until you drop, my boys, And if a headache follow, Why, go to bed and sleep it off, And drink again tomorrow.

Martin began to fear that the wine was suffocating his conscience in its fumes—and said:

"I must go now."

"We will all go with you."

"Magog won't let us out."

"Yes he will, we will say we are all going to Saint Frideswide's shrine to say our prayers."

"The dice before we go."

"Throw against me," said Hugh to our Martin.

"I cannot, I never played in my life."

"Then the sooner you begin the better.

"Here, roaring Ralph, this innocent young acolyte says he has never touched the dice."

"Then the sooner he begins the better.

"Come, stake a mark against me."

"He hasn't got one."

Shame, false shame, conquered Martin's repugnance. He threw one of his few coins down, and Ralph did the same.

"You throw first—six and four—ten. Here goes—I have only two threes, the marks are yours."

"Nay, I don't want them."

"Take them and be hanged. D'ye think I can't spare a mark?"

"Fighting, dicing, drinking," and then came to Martin's mind the words of Adam de Maresco, uttered that very morning, and now he determined to go at once at any cost, and turned to the door.

"Nay, we are all going to see thee safe home. The boves boreales may be grazing in the streets."

"I hear them! Burr! burr! burr!"

Down the stairs they all staggered. Martin felt so overcome as he emerged into the air that he did not know at first how to walk straight, yet he had not drunk half so much as the rest.

"Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute."

But happily (to ease the mind of our readers we will say at once) he was not to take many steps on this road.

"Magog! Magog! open! open!"

"Not such a noise, you'll wake the old governor above,"—alluding to the master of the hostel.

"He won't wake, not he. It does not pay to see too much. He knows his own interests."

"Past curfew," growled Magog. "Can't let any one out."

"That only means he wants another coin."

"Open, Magog, we are going to pray at Saint Frideswide's shrine for thee."

"We are going to get another deer for thee at Woodstock."

"We are going by the king's invitation to visit the palace, and see the ghost of fair Rosamond."

"We are going to sup with the Franciscans—six split peas and a thimbleful of water to each man."

Even the venal porter hesitated to let such a crew into the streets, but he gave way under the pressure of another coin. Cudgel in hand they went forth, and as they passed the hostel they called "Ape Hall" they sang aloud:

Come forth, ye apes, and scratch your polls, Your learning is in question, And while ye scratch, eat what ye catch, To quicken your digestion.

Two or three "apes" looked out of the window much disgusted, as well they might be, and were driven back by a shower of stones. Onward—shouting, roaring, singing, but they met no one. All the world was in bed. The moon alone looked down upon them as she waded through the clouds, casting brilliant light here, leaving black shadows there.

All at once a light, the light of a torch, turned the corner. The tinkling of a small bell was heard. It was close upon them. A priest bore the last Sacrament to the dying—the Viaticum, or Holy Communion, so called when given in the hour of death.

"Down," cried Ralph, and they all knelt as it passed, for such was the universal habit. Even vicious sinners thought they atoned for their vice by their ready compliance with the forms of the Church. Many a man in that day would have thought it a less sin to cut a throat than to omit such an act of devotion.

But Martin recognised the priest. It was Adam de Maresco in his gray Franciscan robes, and he thought the father recognised him. He turned crimson with shame at being found in such company.

At last they reached home, and sick at heart he knocked at the door. It was long before he was admitted, and then not without sharp words of reproof, at which his companions laughed, as they turned and went back to Le Oriole.

Martin bathed his head in water to drive away the racking headache. Fire seemed coursing through his veins as he lay down on the hard pallet of straw in his little cell.

He was awoke by a hideous purring; there, as he thought, upon his cast-off garments, sat the enemy of mankind: he had drawn the mark gained at the dice out of the gypsire, and was feasting on it with his eyes, ever and anon licking it with great gusto, and meanwhile purr, purr, purring like a huge cat.

Martin, now awake, dashed from his couch—no fiend was there—he tore his gypsire open, took out the coin, opened his casement, and threw it like an accursed thing into the street. Then he got in bed again and sobbed like a child.



Chapter 10: Foul And Fair.

The rivalry between Drogo and Hubert became the more intense that both lads were bound to suppress it; and after the return of the latter from Sussex, it found vent in many acts of hostility and spite on the part of the former, who was the older and bigger boy. Yet he could not bully Hubert to any extent. The indomitable pluck and courage of the youngster prevented it. He would not take a blow or an insult without the most desperate resistance in the former case, and the most sarcastic retorts in the latter, and he had both a prompt hand and a cutting tongue. So Drogo had to swallow his hatred as best he could, but it led to many black dark thoughts, and to a determination to rid himself of his rival should the opportunity ever be afforded, by fair means or foul.

"I mean yet to be Lord of Walderne," he said to himself again and again.

And first of all he longed to get Hubert expelled from Kenilworth, and to deprive him of the favour and protection of the earl; and one day the devil, who often aids and abets those who seek his help, threw a chance in his way.

The earl had found it necessary to put a check upon the constant slaughter of the deer in his large domains, which bade fair to depopulate the forests. Therefore he had especially forbidden the pages to shoot a stag or fawn, under any pretext, and as his orders had been once or twice transgressed, he had caused it to be intimated that the next offence, on the part of a page, would be punished by expulsion: a very light penalty, when on many domains, notably in the royal parks, it was death to a peasant or any common person to kill the red deer.

All the young candidates for knighthood at Kenilworth had their arrows marked, for an arrow was too expensive a thing to be wasted, and therefore the young archers regained their shafts when they had done their work at the target. Such marks were useful also in preventing disputes.

One day, out in the woods, letting fly these shafts at lesser game, such as they were permitted to kill, Hubert lost one of his arrows. A few days afterwards the chief forester came up to the castle to see the earl, who had just returned after a prolonged absence, and his communication caused no little stir.

The next day, after chapel, the earl ordered all the pages, some twenty-five in number, to assemble in their common room, where they received such lessons in the "humanities" from the chaplain as their lord compelled them to accept, often against their taste and inclination, for they thought nothing worth learning save fighting and hunting.

When they had assembled, the earl, attended by the chaplain, appeared. They all stood in humble respect, and he looked with a keen eye down their ranks, as they were ranged about twelve on each side of the hall. A handsome, athletic set they were, dressed in what we should call the Montfort livery—a garb which set off their natural good looks abundantly—the dark features of Drogo; the light eyes and flaxen hair of the son of a Provencal maiden, our Hubert; were fair types of the varieties of appearance to be met amongst the groups.

The earl's features were clouded.

"You are all aware, my boys, of the order that no one below knightly rank should shoot deer in my forests?"

"We are," said one and all.

"Does any page profess ignorance of the rule?"

No reply.

"Then I have another question to put, and first of all, let me beg most earnestly to press upon the guilty one the necessity of truth and honour, which, although it may not justify me in remitting the penalty, may yet retain him my friendship. A deer has been slain in the woods, and by one of you. Let the guilty boy avow his fault."

No one stirred.

The earl looked troubled.

"This grieves me deeply," he said, "far more than the mere offence. It becomes a matter of honour—he who stirs not, declares himself innocent, called by lawful authority to avow the truth as he now is."

Once or twice the earl looked sadly at Hubert, but the face of the fair boy was unclouded. If he had looked on the other side, he might have seen anxiety, if not apprehension, on one face.

"Enter then, sir forester."

The forester entered.

"You found a deer shot by an arrow in the West Woods?"

"I did."

"And you found the arrow?"

"Yes."

"Was it marked?"

"It was."

The earl held an arrow up.

"Who owns the crest of a boar's head?"

Hubert started.

"I do, my lord—but—but," and he changed colour.

Do not let the reader wonder at this. Innocence suddenly arraigned is oft as confused as guilt.

"But, my lord, I never shot the deer."

"Thine arrow is a strong presumptive proof against thee."

"I cannot tell, my lord, who can have used one of my arrows for such a purpose—I did not."

Here spoke up another page, a Percy of the Northumbrian breed of warriors.

"My lord, I was out the other day with Hubert in the woods, and he lost an arrow which he shot at a hare. We often lose our arrows in the woods."

"Does any other page know aught of the matter? Speak to clear the innocent or convict the guilty. As you look forward to knighthood, I adjure you all on your honour."

Then Drogo, who thought that things were going too well for Hubert, spoke.

"My lord, is it a duty to tell all we know, even if it is against a companion?"

"It is under such circumstances, when the innocent may be suspected."

"Then, my lord, I saw Hubert shoot that deer, as I was in the West Woods."

"Saw him! Did he see you?"

"It is a lie, my lord," cried Hubert indignantly. "I cast the lie in his teeth, and challenge him to prove his words by combat in the lists, when I will thrust the slander down his perjured throat."

The earl had his own doubts as to this new piece of evidence, for he was aware of Drogo's feelings towards Hubert, and therefore he welcomed the indignant denial of the younger boy. Still, he could not permit mortal combat at their age. They were not entitled to claim it while below the rank of knighthood.

"You are too young for the appeal to battle."

"My lord," whispered one of his knights, "a similar case occurred at Warkworth Castle when I was there: a page gave another the direct lie as this one has done, and the earl permitted them to run a course with blunted lances and fight it out; adjudging the dismounted page to be in the wrong, as indeed he afterwards proved to be."

"Let it be so," said Earl Simon, who had a devout belief in the ordeal, as manifesting the judgment of the Unerring One. "We allow the appeal, and it shall be decided this afternoon in the tilt yard."

Blunted lances! Not very dangerous, our readers may think at first thought. But the shock and the violent fall from the horse was really the more dangerous part of the tournament. The point of the lance seldom penetrated the armour of proof in which combatants were encased.

The pages separated in great excitement. Most of them held with Hubert—for Drogo's arrogant manners had not gained him many friends. Much advice was given to the younger boy how to "go in and win," and the poor lad was eager for the fight whereby his honour was to be vindicated, as though victory and reputation were quite secured, as indeed in his belief they were.

The ordeal! it seems full of superstition to us, unaccustomed to believe in, or to realise, God's direct dealing with the world. But men then thought that God must show the innocence of the accused who thus appealed to Him, whether by battle or by the earlier forms of ordeal {18}.

But was not the casting of lots in the Old Testament akin to the idea, and are there not passages in the Levitical books prescribing similar usages with the object of detecting innocence or guilt?

At all events, the ordeal was allowed to be decisive, and if it were a capital charge, the headsman was at hand to behead the convicted offender—convicted by the test to which he had appealed.

A peculiarly solemn order and ritual was observed in such appeals, when the fight was to the death. The combatants confessed, and received, what to one was probably his last Communion; and thus avowing in the most solemn way their innocence before God and man, they came to the lists. In cases where one of the party must of necessity be perjured, the sin of thus profaning the Sacraments of the Church was supposed to ensure his downfall the more certainly, for would not God the rather be moved to avenge Himself?

But in the case of these pages, both under the degree of knighthood, such solemn sanction was not invoked, yet the affair was sufficiently impressive. The tilt yard was a wide and level sward, bordered on one side by the moat, surrounded by a low hedge, within which was erected a covered pavilion, not much unlike the stands on race courses in general design, only glittering with cloth of gold or silver, with flags and pennons fair.

In the foremost rank of seats sat the earl and his countess, with other guests of rank then residing in the castle, behind were other privileged members of the household, and around the course were grouped such of the retainers and garrison of the castle as the piquant passage of arms between two boys had enticed from their ordinary posts or duties. But perhaps it was only the same general appetite for excitement which gathers the whole mass of boys in our public schools (or did gather in rougher days), to witness a "mill."

But one essential ceremonial was not omitted. The two combatants being admitted to the lists, each stood in turn before the earl, seated in the pavilion, and thus cried:

"Here stands Drogo of Harengod, who maintains that he saw Hubert (of Nowhere) shoot the earl's deer, and will maintain the same on the body of the said Hubert, soi-disant of Walderne."

These additions to Hubert's name were insults, and made the earl frown, while it spoke volumes as to the true cause of the animosity. Then Hubert stood up and spoke.

"Here stands Hubert of Walderne, who avows that Drogo of Harengod lies, and will maintain his own innocence on the body of the said Drogo, so help him God."

Then both knelt, and the chaplain prayed that God, who alone knew the hearts and the hidden actions of men, would reveal the truth, by the events of the struggle.

Then each of the combatants went to his own end of the lists, where a horse and headless lance were awaiting him, under the care of two friends—fratres consociati. Percy, and Alois from Blois, were the friends of Hubert. The chronicler has forgotten who befriended or seconded Drogo, and hopes he found it hard to find any one to do so.

The earl rose up in the pavilion, and bade the herald sound the charge. The two combatants galloped against each other at full speed, and met with a dull heavy shock. Drogo's lance had, whether providentially or otherwise, just grazed the helmet of his opponent and glanced off. Hubert's came so full on the crest of his enemy that he went down, horse and all.

Had this been a mortal combat, Hubert would at once have been expected to dismount, and with his sword to compel a confession from his fallen foe, on the pain of instant death in the case of refusal. But this combat was limited to the tourney—and a loud acclaim hailed Hubert as Victor.

Drogo was stunned by his fall, and borne by the earl's command to his chamber.

"God hath spoken, and vindicated the innocent," said the earl.

"Rise, my son," he added to Hubert, who knelt before him. "We believe in thy truth, and will abide by the event of the ordeal; but as thou art saved from expulsion, it is fitting that Drogo should pay the penalty he strove to inflict upon another."

Hubert was not generous enough to pray for the pardon of his foe (as in any book about good boys he would have done). He felt too deeply injured by the lie.

But his innocence was not left to the simple test of the trial by combat, in which case many modern unbelievers might feel inward doubts. That night the forester sought the earl again, and brought with him a verdurer or under keeper. This man had seen the whole affair, had seen Drogo pick up Hubert's arrow after the latter was gone, and stand as if musing over it, when a deer came that way, and Drogo let fly the shaft at once. Then he discovered the spectator, and bribed him with all the money he had about him to keep silence, which the fellow did, until he heard of the trial by combat and the accusation of the innocent, whereupon his conscience gave him no rest until he had owned his fault, and bringing the bribe to his chief, the forester, had made full reparation.

There was another gathering of the pages in the great hall on the following day. The earl and chaplain were there, the chief forester and his subordinate. Drogo, still suffering from his fall, and by no means improved in appearance, was brought before them.

"Drogo de Harengod," said the earl, "I should have doubted of God's justice, had the ordeal to which thou didst appeal gone otherwise. But since yesterday the right has been made yet more clear. Dost thou know yon verdurer?"

Drogo looked at the man.

"My lord," he said. "I accept the decision of the combat. Let me go from Kenilworth."

"What, without reparation?"

"I have my punishment to bear in expulsion from this place"—("if punishment it be," he muttered)—"as for my soi-disant cousin, it will be an evil day for him when he crosses my path elsewhere."

The earl stood astonished at his audacity.

"Thou perjured wretch!" he said. "Thou perverter by bribes! thou liar and false accuser! GO, amidst the contempt and scorn of all who know thee."

And, amidst the hisses of his late companions, Drogo left Kenilworth for ever—expelled.



Chapter 11: The Early Franciscans.

We are afraid that some of our youthful readers will wonder what cause Martin had for such extreme self reproach, and why he should make such a serious matter of a little dissipation—such as we described in our former chapter.

But Martin had received a higher call, and although the old Adam within him would have its way, at times, yet his whole heart was set on serving God. To Hubert this dissipation would have seemed a small thing; to Martin such drinking, dicing, and brawling was simply selling his birthright for a mess of pottage.

So, with the early dawn, he went to mass at the Franciscan house, and wept all through the service, devoutly offering at the same time the renewed oblation of his heart to God, and praying that through the great sacrifice there commemorated and mystically renewed, the oblation of self might be sanctified.

Then he sought the good prior, Adam de Maresco, and obtaining an audience after the dejeuner or breakfast, poured out all his sorrows and sin.

The good prior almost smiled at the earnestness of the self rebuke. He was not at all shocked. It was just what he had expected; he was only too delighted to find that the young prodigal loathed so speedily the husks which the swine do eat.

"Ah, my son, did I not bid thee not to trust too much to thyself? and now my words have been verified by thy own experience, as it was perhaps well they should be."

"Well! that I should become a drunkard, dicer, and brawler."

"Well that thou shouldst so early hate drinking, dicing, and brawling. To many such hatred only comes after years have brought satiety; to thee, my dear child, one night seems to have brought it."

"Yes, now I am clothed, and in my right mind, like the lunatic who had been cutting himself with stones. But, my father, take me in, I cannot trust myself out of the shelter of the priory."

"Then thou art not fit to enter it, for we want men whom we may send out into the world without fear. No! the first vacant cell shall be thine, but I will not hasten the time by a day. Thou must prove thy vocation, and then thou mayst join the brotherhood of sweet Saint Francis."

"Tell me, my father, how old was the saint when he renounced the world? Did Francis ever love it?"

"He did, indeed. He was called 'Le debonair Francois.' He loved the Provencal songs, and indeed learned to sing his sweet melodies to Christ after the mode of those songs of earthly love. His eyes danced with life, he went singing about all day long, and through the glorious Italian night. But even then he loved his neighbour. No beggar asked of him in vain. Liberalis et hilaris was Francis."

"And did he ever fight?"

"Yes. When a mere lad, he lay a year in prison at Perugia, having been taken captive in fighting for his own city Assisi. But even then he was the joy of his fellow captives, from his bright disposition."

"When did he give up all this?"

"Not till he was ten years older than thou art. One night he was made king of the feast, at a drinking bout, and went forth, at the head of his companions, to pour forth their songs into the sweet Italian moonlight. A sudden hush fell upon him.

"'What ails thee, Francis?' cried the rest. 'Art thinking of a wife?'

"'Yes,' he said. 'Of one more noble, more pure, than you can conceive, any of you.'"

"What did he mean?"

"The yearning for the life which is hid with Christ in God had seized him. It was the last of his revels.

"'Love set my heart on fire,'

"He used afterwards to sing. It was at that moment the fire kindled."

"I wish it would set mine on fire."

"Perhaps the fire is already kindled."

"Nay, think of last night."

"And what makes thee loathe last night? Other young men do not loathe such follies."

"Shame, I suppose."

"And what gives thee that divine shame? It is not thine own sinful nature. There is something in thee which is not of self."

"You think so? Oh, you think so?"

"Indeed I do."

"Then you give me fresh hope."

"Since you ask it of a fellow worm."

"But what can I do? I want to be up and doing."

"Keep out of temptation. Avoid the causeway after vespers. Meanwhile I will enrol thy name as an associate of the Order, and thou shalt go forth as Francis did, while not yet quite separated from the world. Do you know the story of the leper?"

"Tell it me."

"One day the saint, not yet a saint, only trying to be one, met one of these wretched beings. At first he shuddered. Then, remembering that he who would serve Christ must conquer self, he dismounted from his horse, kissed the leper's hand, and filled it with money. Then he went on his road, but looked back to see what had become of the leper, and lo! he had disappeared, although the country was quite plain, without any means of concealment."

"What had become of him?"

"That I cannot tell thee. Francis thought afterwards it was an angel, if not the Blessed Lord Himself."

"May I visit the lepers tomorrow?"

"The disease is infectious."

"What of that?" said Martin, unconsciously imitating his friend Hubert.

"Well, we will see. Again Francis once gave way to pride. How do you think he conquered it?"

"Tell me, for that is my great sin."

"He exchanged his gay clothes with a wretched beggar, and begged all day on the steps of Saint Peter's at Rome."

"May I do that on the steps of Oseney?"

"It would not be a bad way to subdue the pride of the flesh! But then there are other things to subdue. Dost thou love to eat the fat and drink the sweet?"

"All too well!"

"So did Francis. He had a very sweet tooth, so he lived for a week on such scraps as he could beg in beggar's plight from door to door; all this in the first flush of his devotion."

"And what else?"

"Ah! that without which all else is nought, the root from which it all sprang: he lived as one who felt the words, 'I live, yet not I, but Christ which liveth in me.' He would spend hours in rapt devotion before the crucifix, with no mortal near, until his very face was transformed, and the love of the Crucified set his heart on fire."

"And when did he go forth to found his mighty Order?"

"Not until the eighth year of this century, and the twenty-sixth of his age. One feast of bright Saint Barnaby, he was at mass, and heard the words of the Gospel wherein is described how our Lord sent forth His apostles to preach two by two; without purse, without change of raiment, without staff or shoes {19}. Out he went, threw off his ordinary clothing, donned a gray robe, like this we wear, tied a rope round for a girdle, and went forth crying:

"'Repent of your sins, and believe the Gospel!'

"I was travelling in Italy then, and once met him on his road. Methinks I see him now—his oval face, his full forehead, his clear, bright, limpid eyes, his flowing hair, his long hands and thin delicate fingers, and his commanding presence.

"'Brother!' he said. 'Hast thou met with Him of Nazareth? He is seeking for thee.'

"You will hardly believe that I did not understand him at first, so unfamiliar in my giddy youth were the simplest facts of the Gospel. But the words sank as if by miraculous force into my heart, and from that hour I knew no rest till I found Him, or He found me."

"Was Francis long alone?"

"No. Brother after brother joined him. First Bernard, then Peter, then Giles; they went singing sweet carols along the road, which Francis had composed out of his ready mind. They were the first hymns in the vernacular, and the people stopped to hear about God's dear Son. Then, collecting a crowd, they preached in the marketplace. Such preaching! Francis' first sermon in his native town set every one crying. They said the Passion of Jesus had never been so wept over in the memory of man.

"The brotherhood increased rapidly, and they went on pilgrimage to Rome, to gain the approbation of the Pope. They went on foot, carrying neither purses nor food, but He who careth for the ravens cared for them, and soon they reached the Holy City. The Pope, Innocent the Third, was walking in the Lateran, when up came a poor man in a gray shepherd's smock, and addressed him. The Pope, indignant at being disturbed in his meditations by this intrusion, bade the intruder leave the palace, and turned away. But the same night he had two dreams: he thought a palm tree grew out of the ground by his side, and rose till it filled the sky.

"'Lo,' said a voice, 'the poor man whom thou hast driven away.'

"Then he thought he saw the church falling, and a figure in a gray robe rushed forth and propped it up—

"'Lo, the poor man whom thou hast driven away.'

"He sent for the stranger, and Francis opened his heart to the mighty Pontiff.

"'Go,' said the Pope, 'in the name of the Lord, and preach repentance to all; and when God has multiplied you in numbers and grace, I will give you yet greater privileges.'

"Then he commanded that they should receive the tonsure, and, although not ordained, be considered clerks.

"Imagine their joy! They visited the tombs of the Holy Apostles; and, bare footed, penniless as they came, went home, singing and preaching all the way. And thus they sang:"

Love sets my heart on fire, Love of my Bridegroom new, The Slain: the Crucified! To Him my heart He drew When hanging on the Tree, From whence He said to me I am the Shepherd true; Love sets my heart on fire.

I die of sweetest love, Nor wonder at my fate, The sword which deals the blow Is love immaculate. Love sets my heart on fire (etc).

"So singing, and now and then discoursing on heavenly joys, the little band reached home. And from thence it has grown, until it has attained vast numbers. We are all over Europe. The sweet songs of Francis have set Italy on fire. And now wherever there are sinners to be saved, or sick in body or soul to be tended, you find the Franciscan.

"Now I hear the bell for terce—go forth, my son, and prove your vocation."



Chapter 12: How Hubert Gained His Spurs.

Two years had elapsed since the events related in our last two chapters; and they had passed uneventfully, so far as the lives of the page and the scholar are concerned.

Hubert had attained to the close of his pagedom, and the assumption of the second degree in chivalry, that of squire. He ever longed for the day when he should be able to fulfil his promise to his poor stricken father, who, albeit somewhat relieved of his incubus, since the night when father and son watched together, was not yet quite free from his ghostly visitant; moderns would say "from his mania."

And Martin was still fulfilling his vocation as a novice of the Order of Saint Francis, and was close upon the attainment of the dignity of a scholastic degree—preparatory (for so his late lamented friend had advised) to a closer association with the brotherhood, who no longer despised, as their father Francis did, the learning of the schools.

We say late lamented friend, for Adam de Maresco had passed away, full of certain hope and full assurance of "the rest which remaineth for the people of God." He died during Martin's second year at Oxford.

Meanwhile the political strife between the king and the barons had reached its height. The latter felt themselves quite superseded by the new nobility, introduced from Southern France. The English clergy groaned beneath foreign prelates introduced, not to feed, but to shear the flocks. The common people were ruined by excessive and arbitrary taxation.

At last the barons determined upon constitutional resistance, and Earl Simon, following the dictates of his conscience, felt it his duty to cast in his lot with them, although he was the king's brother-in-law. Still, his wife had suffered deeply at her brother's hands, and was no "dove bearing an olive branch."

It was in Easter, 1258, and the parliament, consisting of all the tenants in capiti, who hold lands directly from the crown, were present at Westminster. The king opened his griefs to them—griefs which only money could assuage. But he was sternly informed that money would only be granted when pledges (and they more binding than his oft-broken word) were given for better government, and the redress of specified abuses; and finally, after violent recriminations between the two parties, as we should now say the ministry and the opposition, headed by Earl Simon, parliament was adjourned till the 11th of June, and it was decided that it should meet again at Oxford, where that assembly met which gained the name of the "Mad Parliament."

On the 22nd of June this parliament decreed that all the king's castles which were held by foreigners should be rendered back to the Crown, and to set the example, Earl Simon, although he had well earned the name "Englishman," delivered the title deeds of his castles of Kenilworth and Odiham into the hands of the king.

But the king's relations by marriage refused to follow this self-denying ordinance, and they well knew that neither the old king nor his young heir, Prince Edward, wished them to follow Earl Simon's example. A great storm of words followed.

"I will never give up my castles, which my brother the king, out of his great love, has given me," said William de Valence.

"Know this then for certain, that thou shalt either give up thy castles or thy head," replied Earl Simon.

The Poitevins saw they were in evil case, and that they were outnumbered at Oxford. So they left the court, and fled all to the Castle of Wolvesham, near Winchester, where their brother, the Bishop Aymer, made common cause with them.

The barons acted promptly. They broke up the parliament and pursued.

Hubert was at Oxford throughout the session of the Mad Parliament, in attendance on his lord, as "esquire of the body," to which rank he, as we have said, had now attained; and at Oxford he met his beloved Martin again. Yes, Hubert was now an esquire; now he had a right to carry a shield and emblazon it with the arms of Walderne. He was also withdrawn from that compulsory attendance on the ladies at the castle which he had shared with the other pages. He had no longer to wait at table during meals. But fresh duties, much more arduous, devolved upon him. He had to be both valet and groom to the earl, to scour his arms, to groom his horse, to attend his bed chamber, and to sleep outside the door in an anteroom, to do the honours of the household in his lord's absence, gracefully, like a true gentleman; to play with his lord, the ladies, or the visitors at chess or draughts in the long winter evenings; to sing, to tell romaunts or stories, to play the lute or harp; in short, to be all things to all people in peace; and in war to fight like a Paladin.

Now he had to learn to wear heavy armour, and thus accoutred, to spring upon a horse, without putting foot to stirrup; to run long distances without pause; to wield the heavy mace, axe, or sword for hours together without tiring; to raise himself between two walls by simply setting his back against one, his feet against the other; in short, to practise all gymnastics which could avail in actual battles or sieges.

In warfare it became his duty to bear the helmet or shield of his lord, to lead his war horse, to lace his helmet, to belt and buckle his cuirass, to help him to vest in his iron panoply, with pincers and hammer; to keep close to his side in battle, to succour him fallen, to avenge him dead, or die with him.

Such being a squire's duties, what a blessing to Hubert to be a squire to such a Christian warrior as the earl, a privilege he shared with some half dozen of his former fellow pages—turn and turn about.

In this capacity he attended his lord during the pursuit of the foreign favourites to Wolvesham Castle, where they had taken refuge with Aymer de Valence, whom the king, by the Pope's grace, had made titular bishop of that place. We say titular, for Englishmen would not permit him to enjoy his see; he spoke no word of English.

At Wolvesham the foreign lords were forced to surrender, and accepted or appeared to accept their sentence of exile. But ere starting they invited the confederate barons to a supper, wherein they mingled poison with the food.

This nefarious plot Hubert discovered, happening to overhear a brief conversation on the subject between the bishop's chamberlain and the Jew who supplied the poison, and whom Hubert secured, forcing him to supply the antidote which in all probability saved the lives of the four Earls of Leicester, Gloucester, Hereford, and Norfolk. The brother of the Earl of Gloucester did die—the Abbot of Westminster—the others with difficulty recovered.

Hubert had now a great claim not only on the friendship of his lord, which he had earned before, but on that of these other mighty earls, and they held a consultation together, to decide how they could best reward him for the essential service he had rendered. The earl told the whole story of his birth and education, as our readers know it.

"He has, it is true, rendered us a great service, but that does not justify us in advancing him in chivalry. He must earn that by some deed of valour, or knighthood would be a mere farce."

"Exactly so," said he of Hereford. "Now I have a proposition: not a week passes but my retainers are in skirmish with those wildcats, the Welsh. Let the boy go and serve under my son, Lord Walter. He will put him in the way of earning his spurs."

"The very thing," said Earl Simon. "Only I trust he will not get killed, which is very likely under the circumstances, in which case I really fear the poor old father would go down with sorrow to the grave. Still, what is glory without risk? Were he my own son, I should say, 'let him go.' Only, brother earl, caution thy noble son and heir, that the youngster is very much more likely to fail in discretion than in valour. He is one of those excitable, impulsive creatures who will, as I expect, fight like a wildcat, and show as little wisdom."

Hubert was sent for.

"Art thou willing to leave my service?" said the earl.

"My lord," said poor Hubert, all in a tremble, "leave thee?"

"Yes; dost thou not wish to go to the Holy Land?"

"Oh, if it is to go there. But must I not wait for knighthood?"

The reader must remember that knighthood alone would give Hubert a claim upon the assistance and hospitality of other knights and nobles, and that once a knight, he was the equal in social station of kings and princes, and could find admittance into all society. As a squire, he could only go to the Holy Land in attendance upon some one else, nor could he carry the sword and belt of the dead man whom he was to represent. A knight must personate a knight.

Hence Hubert's words.

"It is for that purpose we have sent for thee," replied the earl. "Thou must win thy spurs, and there is no likelihood of opportunity arising in this peaceful land (how little the earl thought what was in the near future), so thou must even go where blows are going."

"I am ready, my lord, and willing."

"The Earl of Hereford is about to return home, and will take thee with him to fight against the Welsh under his banner. Now what dost thou say to that?"

Hubert bent the knee to the new lord, with all that grace which he inherited from his Provencal blood. And sooth, my young readers, if you could have seen that eager face with that winning smile, and those brave bright eyes, you would have loved him, too, as the earl did; but for all that I do not think he had the sterling qualities of his friend Martin, who is rather my hero: but then I am not young now, or I might think differently.

We have not space again to describe this portion of Hubert's life, upon which we now enter, in any detail. Suffice it to say he went to Hereford Castle with the earl, and was soon transferred to an outpost on the upper Wye, where he was at once engaged in deadly warfare with the fiercest of savages. For the Welsh, once the cultivated Britons, had degenerated into savagery. Bloodshed and fire raising amongst the hated "Saxons" (as they called all the English alike) were the amusement and the business of their lives, until Edward the First, of dire necessity, conquered and tamed them in the very next generation. Until then, the Welsh borders were a hundred times more insecure than the Cheviots. No treaties could bind the mountaineers. They took oaths of allegiance, and cheerfully broke them. "No faith with Saxons" was their motto.

These fields, these meadows once were ours, And sooth by heaven and all its powers, Think you we will not issue forth, To spoil the spoiler as we may, And from the robber rend the prey.

Even the payment of blackmail, so effectual with the Highlanders, did not secure the border counties from these flippant fighters, and in sooth Normans were much too proud for any such evasion of a warrior's duty.

There, then, our Hubert fleshed his maiden sword, within a week after his arrival at Llanystred Castle; and that in a fierce skirmish, wherein the fighting was all hand to hand, he slew his man.

But in these fights, where every one was brave, there was small opportunity for Hubert to gain personal distinction. A coward was very rare; as well expect a deer to be born amongst a race of tigers. There were, it is true, degrees of self devotion, and for a chance of distinguishing himself by self sacrifice Hubert longed.

And thus it came.

He had been sent from the castle on the Wye, which might well be called, like one in Sir Walter's tales, "Castle Dangerous," upon an errand to an outpost, and was returning by moonlight along the banks of the stream, there a rushing mountain torrent. It was a weird scene, the peaks of the Black Mountains rose up into the calm pellucid air of night, the solemn woods lined the further bank of the river, and extended to the bases of the hills. It was just the time and the hour when the wild, unconquered Celts were likely to make their foray upon the dwellers on the English side of the stream, if they could find a spot where they could cross.

About half a mile from Llanystred Castle, amidst the splash and dash of the water, Hubert distinguished some peculiar and unaccustomed sounds, like the murmur of many voices, in some barbarous tongue, all ll's and consonants.

He waited and listened.

Just below him roared and foamed the stream, and it so happened that a series of black rocks raised their heads above the swollen waters like still porpoises, at such distances as to afford lithesome people the chance of crossing, dry shod, when the water was low.

But it was a risk, for the river had all the strength of a cataract, and he who slipped would infallibly be carried down by the strong current and dashed against the rocks and drowned.

Here Hubert watched, clad in light mail was he, and he cunningly kept in the shadow.

Soon he saw a black moving mass opposite, and then the moonlight gleam upon a hundred spear tops. Did his heart fail him? No; the chance he had pined for was come. It was quite possible for one daring man to bid defiance to the hundred here, and prevent their crossing.

See, they come, and Hubert's heart beats loudly—the first is on the first stone, the others press behind. He, the primus, leaps on to the second rock, and so to the third, and still his place is taken, at every resting place he leaves, by his successor. Yes, they mean to get over, and to have a little blood letting and fire raising tonight, just for amusement.

And only one stout heart to prevent them. They do not see him until the last stepping stone is attained by the first man, and but one more leap needed to the shore, when a stern, if youthful, voice cries:

"Back, ye dogs of Welshmen!" and the first Celt falls into the stream, transfixed by Hubert's spear, transfixed as he made the final leap.

A sudden pause: the second man tries to leap so as to avoid the spear, his own similar weapon presented before him, but position gives Hubert advantage, and the second foe goes down the waves, dyeing them with his blood, raising his despairing hand, as he dies, out of the foaming torrent.

The third hesitates.

And now comes the real danger for Hubert: a flight of arrows across the stream—they rattle on his chain mail, and generally glance harmlessly off, but one or two find weak places, and although his vizor is down, Hubert knows that one unlucky, or, as the foe would say "lucky," shot penetrating the eyelet might end sight and life together. So he blows his horn, which he had scorned to do before.

He was but imperfectly clad in armour, and was soon bleeding in divers unprotected places; but there he stood, spear in hand, and no third person had dared to cross.

But when they heard the horn, feeling that the chance of a raid was going, the third sprang. With one foot he attained the bank, and as Hubert was rather dizzy from loss of blood, avoided the spear thrust. But the young Englishman drove the dagger, which he carried in the left hand, into his throat as he rose from the stream. The fourth leapt. Hubert was just in time with the spear. The fifth hesitated—the flight of arrows, intermitted for the moment, was renewed.

Just then up came Lord Walter, the eldest son of the earl, with a troop of lancers, and Hubert reeled to the ground from loss of blood, while the Welsh sullenly retreated.

They bore him to the castle. A few light wounds, which had bled profusely from the leg and arm, were all that was amiss. Hubert's ambition was attained, for he had slain four Welshmen with his own young hand. And those to whom "such things were a care" saw four lifeless, ghastly corpses circling for days round and round an eddy in the current below the castle, round and round till one got giddy and sick in watching them, but still they gyrated, and no one troubled to fish them out. They were a sign to friend and foe, a monument of our Hubert's skill in slaying "wildcats."

A few days later the Lord of Hereford arrived at the castle, and visited Hubert's sick chamber, where he brought much comfort and joy. A fine physician was that earl; Hubert was up next day.

And what was the tonic which had given such a fillip to his system, and hurried on his recovery? The earl purposed to confer upon him the degree he pined for, as soon as he could bear his armour.

At first any knight could make a knight. Now, to check the too great profusion of such flowers of chivalry, the power to confer the accolade was commonly restricted to the greater nobles, and later still, as now, to royalty alone.

It was the eve of Saint Michael's Day, "the prince of celestial chivalry," as these fighting ancestors of ours used to say. It was wild and stormy, for the summer and autumn had been so wet that the crops were still uncarried through the country. The river below was rushing onward in high flood; here it came tumbling, there it rolled rumbling; here it leapt splashing, there it rushed dashing; like the water at Lodore; and seemed to shake the rocks on which Castle Llanystred was built.

And above, the clouds in emulous sport hurried over the skies, as if a foe were chasing them, in the shape of a southwestern blast. So the nightfall came on, and Hubert went with the decaying light into the castle chapel, where he had to watch his arms all night, with fasting and prayer, spear in hand.

What a night of storm and wind it was on which our Hubert, ere he received knighthood, watched and kept vigil in the chapel. It reminded him of that night in the priory at Lewes, and from time to time weird sounds seemed to reach him in the pauses of the blast. All but he were asleep, save the sentinels on the ramparts.