Brand smiled and shrugged his shoulders: being very much of the same mind. “At least, go north.” “And why north?” “You have no quarrel in Northumberland, and the King’s writ runs very slowly there, if at all. Old Siward Digre may stand your friend.” “He? He is a fast friend of my father’s.” “What of that? the old Viking will like you none the less for having shown a touch of his own temper. Go to him, I say, and tell him that I sent you.” “But he is fighting the Scots beyond the Forth.” “So much the better. There will be good work for you to do. And Gislebert of Ghent is up there too, I hear, trying to settle himself among the Scots. He is your mother’s kinsman; and as for your being an outlaw, he wants hard hitters and hard riders, and all is fish that comes to his net. Find him out, too, and tell him I sent you.” “You are a good old uncle,” said Hereward. “Why were you not a soldier?” Brand laughed somewhat sadly. “If I had been a soldier, lad, where would you have looked for a friend this day? No. God has done what was merciful with me and my sins. May he do the same by thee and thine.” Hereward made an impatient movement. He disliked any word which seemed likely to soften his own hardness of heart. But he kissed his uncle lovingly on both cheeks. “By the by, Martin,--any message from my lady mother?” “None!” “Quite right and pious. I am an enemy to Holy Church and therefore to her. Good night, uncle.” “Hey?” asked Brand; “where is that footman,--Martin you call him? I must have another word with him.” But Martin was gone. “No matter. I shall question him sharply enough to-morrow, I warrant.” And Hereward went out to his lodging; while the good Prior went to his prayers. When Hereward entered his room, Martin started out of the darkness, and followed him in. Then he shut to the door carefully, and pulled out a bag. “There was no message from my lady: but there was this.” The bag was full of money. “Why did you not tell me of this before?” “Never show money before a monk.” “Villain! would you mistrust my uncle?” “Any man with a shaven crown. St. Peter is his God and Lord and conscience; and if he saw but the shine of a penny, for St. Peter he would want it.” “And he shall have it,” quoth Hereward; and flung out of the room, and into his uncle’s. “Uncle, I have money. I am come to pay back what I took from the Steward, and as much more into the bargain.” And he told out eight-and-thirty pieces. “Thank God and all his saints!” cried Brand, weeping abundantly for joy; for he had acquired, by long devotion, the _donum lachrymarum_,--that lachrymose and somewhat hysterical temperament common among pious monks, and held to be a mark of grace. “Blessed St. Peter, thou art repaid; and thou wilt be merciful!”