“You weep, my brother. I have yet more to tell thee. Before she spoke these last sad words, she placed a paper in my hands--her will--and she said, ‘Bid him read it when he thinks he is worthy to read it.’” “That is not now, Alice. Keep this will; something tells me ’tis best in thy hands. Read my mother’s will now! now that I am borne down with sorrow, against which I do rebel with all my strength. And, sister Alice--I love a lady who, I fear, doth dread me.” “Dread thee?” “She is the princess of Sicily. Her father looked on me with but a troubled eye--and so I strove to steal her. But they fought bravely for their princess, and they saved her. I was down--down upon the ground, and I feared never more to see my own dear land--when a noble knight came to my rescue and delivered me. They fell before his arm as the blades of corn before the reaper. He saved me and he is my dear friend, my dear loving friend!” As he spoke, Bertram was standing not far off; his face wearing a grave, almost a gracious smile, and his white right hand high above him playing with the folds of a flame-red tent. “And the princess, brother--does she love thee?” “Alas, sister--how should I know?” “Nay--write to her.” “And who shall be my herald?” “Who--I will be thy herald!” He called quickly, and from his tent came a page. To this child he gave a rapid order, and the next minute he was writing a letter to the lady whom he would have stolen. When he had finished, he pressed the hilt of his dagger on the seal, as was the custom of the day. “Go--sister of mine--fortune be with you!” As she turned, she saw the knight, Bertram. She was not afraid of him, but she seemed to know he was her enemy. “Brother--who is that man?” “Ah--Bertram! This is the noble friend I told thee of--wherefore dost thou regard him so strangely?” “At home, in our village church, there is a picture which tells how the Archangel conquered Satan; and methinks I see in this man a resemblance to--” “The Archangel?” “No, verily, the other.” “Ha!--go, sister.” She obeyed him with a kind of fearless fear--a courage mixed with a desire to avoid this man. “Thou art on good terms with thy conquest.” “Gratitude, Bertram.” “A good word--a _good_ word.” “Were I bluntly candid, Bertram, I should say that near thee I never feel so honest as when thou art distant; but now as I stood by Alice, I marvelled much how I seemed to enjoy all things about me, and how much I felt inclined to good.” “I love thee, Robert, as a father would his son--his only son.” “Aye--but truly the advice of a father is ever godly.” “Is it likely I am the fiend? Tush!--drown your cares; rejoin the knights and cavaliers--do as they do--_thou art no worse than they_!” “Verily!” “_And thou art rich!_”