“I heard that her husband, for whom she left us, died of wounds received in a foray, and that she actually married his successor, a man of low degree. That by her first husband, who was said to be of noble English blood, she had one child, a son.” Again a long pause: “And since I have been told that that son has reappeared, a brother of Saint Francis. The report has spread all through these parts. Tell me, is it true?” Martin saw that all was known, and concealed himself no longer. “It is true, aunt,” he said. She embraced him, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. “Oh, my Martin: Hubert is no more: and thou shouldst have been Lord of Walderne.” “I seek a better inheritance, and I have not lost my hope of Hubert’s return.” “I shall never see him, and I cannot trust Drogo, although he be the nephew of my late dear lord. I fear he will make a bad Lord of Walderne.” “Then, my lady, leave the place simply in trust for Hubert, in case ought happen to you. Again I say Hubert will return.” “What Drogo takes charge of, he will keep.” “Then confer with the neighbouring gentry, with Earl Warrenne and others, and ask their advice how to secure the property for the true heir.” “It is wisely thought, and shall be done,” she replied. “And now, my dear nephew, tell me all about my poor sister. Can she not be regained to her home, rescued from the wretched life of the woods?” “I fear it is useless, while Grimbeard yet lives; besides a wife’s first duty is to her husband. I live in hope that he may be brought to submit to the authorities whom God has seen fit to place in trust over this land: then, if his pardon can be secured, all will be well.” What further they said we may not relate. Only that, with her ear glued to the door, sat one of the tire women, drinking in all their conversation from the adjoining closet. What could it avail to the wench? Nought personally, perhaps, but the lady was surrounded by the creatures of Drogo, and hence what she said in the supposed secrecy of her bower (boudoir), might soon be reported in his ear, and stimulate him to action. It was a dismal dell—no sunlight penetrated its dark recesses, overgrown with vegetation, overshadowed by dark pines, filled with nettles and brambles. Herein dwelt one of those wretched women supposed to hold special communion with Satan by the credulous peasantry, and whose natural death was the stake. But often they were spared a long time, and sometimes, by accident, died in their beds. Love charms, philtres, she sold, and it was said dealt in poisons, but the fact was never brought home to her, or Sir Nicholas would have hanged, if not have burned her. As it was she owed a longer spell of time, wherein to work evil, to the intercession of the Lady Sybil.