Without wasting more time in words, Oliver Icingla hastened to his chamber, rapidly made such changes in his dress as he deemed necessary for the occasion, hastily spoke a few words of comfort to his mother, who, after a brief interview, had left the presence of her kinsman with grief at her heart and tears in her eyes, and then repaired to the hall, where the tables were ready spread for the evening meal of the household and the guests. At the lower end, several men-at-arms, who had formed Hugh de Moreville’s train, lay on the benches, and lounged around the ample fire of wood that blazed and crackled up the huge chimney, and threw its light over the smoke-begrimed hall. On the daïs, or elevated part, sat the Norman baron, with a countenance which denoted some impatience and much ill humour. Hugh de Moreville was a feudal magnate living in an age when feudal magnates deemed themselves born to do whatever their inclination dictated; and he had the aspect and manner of a man who believed himself entitled to act without restraint, and to make others bend to his will, no matter through what sacrifice of their own feelings or interests. Nor was he often baffled in the objects on which he set his heart. Few, indeed, who knew him as he now was at the age of forty-two, with an iron frame and an iron will, could think, without tremor, of opposing that man, with his haughty bearing, his aquiline features, his proud eye, his elevated eyebrows, his nostrils breathing anger, and his hand so ready to shed blood. But Oliver Icingla, in the home of his fathers, was sustained by more than feudal pride; and it was without the least indication of doubt or dismay, or a consciousness of inferiority in any respect, that he walked to the daïs, and held out his hand to the Norman baron. “My lord and kinsman,” said he, “you are welcome to our poor house.” “By St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, with a flashing eye, “I cannot but think that it would have been more to the purpose had you been here to welcome me on my arrival.” “In truth, my lord,” replied Oliver, calmly and earnestly, “I deeply grieve that I should have been absent on such an occasion. But I did not dream that our humble dwelling was to be honoured with such a guest, otherwise I should not have failed you. However, as the proverb says, ‘Better late than never.’ Wherefore, I pray you, accept my excuses in the spirit in which they are offered, and let the heartiness of my welcome atone for any delay in giving it. Ho, there, knaves! place the supper on the board, that our noble guest may taste of such good cheer as the house affords.”