Yet a few years, and there was more strange court news. The child was as no other child; he would tear birds to pieces, screaming with joy the while; and waking in the night,--he would creep from his bed, open the shutters of his windows to the wind, and remain there with these same winds tearing about his head till the day came--when he would slink away to his bed. He did not love the light, and when night time came, then only was it that his eyes sparkled. Yet a little--and then it was known that he only was gentle when both his mother, and his foster-sister, Alice, were with him. Then he was as child-like as any other child, and would lisp his prayers quite readily. But Alice away, and his mother distant, again he became the strange weird creature he was whispered to be. Then came the rumor a few years later, of an old white-haired man being found dead, a child’s jewelled dagger remaining in his breast. Yet a few more years, and the whispers running through the court trickled out amongst the people, that the duke’s son was a demon! Sad grew the father, sadder and sadder. But it was remarked that though his face grew grave and thoughtful, it was quite unlike the face he wore in that awful year before his son was born. And then it was whispered that if that time were referred to, the duke seemed lost, confused, and that then, and only then, something of that terrible look could be seen upon his countenance. At last the heir was really grown a man; as handsome as any other in Normandy, as brave as any knight at court. But it was observed by many, that, handsome as he was, there was still a threat of the features which his father wore the year before he, Robert, was born. Soon the people grew to detest the heir to the throne; for he swept through the land like a destroying angel. They abhorred him, and then it was they called him ROBERT THE DEVIL! Then, broken-hearted, utterly cast down, but never wearing the old terrible look, the father, greyhaired and weary of the world, exiled his only son from Normandy, forbade him the land of his birth, and drove him from it. Henceforth, till the old duke died, the people never felt the hand of “Robert the Devil.” They heard of him, brave, fearless, terrible--ever conquering, never conquered, never even wounded. They heard of him, a monster--firing, destroying, waking up war wherever he placed his foot; and they trembled as they thought of the time when he should come to reign over them. Meanwhile the old duke and the sorrowing lady prayed, hourly for their lost son; and joined in their prayers the lost son’s foster-sister, ALICE. THE LEGEND. PART I.--THE TEMPTER. A world of tents--to the right, to the left--before or behind--a world of tents. And not dismal little canvas tents--but brave erections in cloths of gold and silver, and gay colors. Truth to tell, all this was evidence of a tournament, given by the Duke of Messina.