The first few months after the departure of Hubert brought little change in the dull routine of daily life there. Drogo speedily returned after the departure of his rival, and his whole energies were spent in making himself acceptable to his uncle, Sir Nicholas. He attended him in the hunt. He assisted him in the management of the estate. He looked after the men-at-arms, the servants, and the general retinue of a medieval castle. The days had passed indeed when war and violence were the natural occupation of a baron, and when the men-at-arms were never left idle long together, but they were almost within memory of living men and might return again. So the defences of the castle were never neglected, and the arts of warfare ceased not to be objects of daily study in the Middle Ages. The Lady Sybil never trusted Drogo thoroughly. She had strong predispositions against him: and quite accepted Hubert’s version of the quarrel at Kenilworth which, under Drogo’s manipulation, assumed a much more innocent aspect than the one in which it was presented to our readers. Sir Nicholas was at last won over to believe that the youth was not so bad after all, the more so as Drogo disavowed all further designs or claims upon the inheritance of Walderne, now that the proper heir was so happily discovered. Harengod would content him, and when the clouds had blown over, he trusted that there would always be peace between Harengod and Walderne. So the months of summer sped by. News arrived of Hubert’s visit to Fievrault, and of the dread portents described in a former chapter, whereat was much marvel. Nought was said of the prophecy, for Hubert did not wish to put such forebodings in the minds of his relations. He had rather they should look hopefully to his return. Poor Hubert! Then they heard, a month later, of his departure from Marseilles. The news was brought by a pilgrim who had just returned from the Holy Land, and met Hubert and his party about to embark, purposing to sail to Acre, in a vessel called the _Fleur de Lys_, near which spot lay a house of the brethren of Saint John, to which order his father owed so much. The reader may imagine how this good pilgrim, who had achieved his task, and come home crowned with honour and glory, was welcomed. He himself, “by the blessing of our Lady,” had escaped all dangers, had worshipped at all the Holy Places, paying the usual tribute demanded by the Paynim. It was a time of truce, and if only Hubert were as fortunate as he, they might hope to see him within another twelve months. But the months passed on. Autumn deepened into winter. The leaves put on their gayest and rarest garb of russet and gold to die, like vain things, clothed in their best. Winter, far more severe than in these days, bound the earth in its icy grasp. And still he came not.