“It is wind proof, and thou mayst rest in safety till the horn summons all to break their fast at dawn: thou mayst sleep meanwhile as securely as in thine own castle.” And the outlaws rose with a courtesy one would hardly have expected from these wild sons of the forest; while Kynewulf showed the guests to their sleeping quarters, through the still fast-falling snow. The hut was snug as Grimbeard (for such was the chieftain’s appropriate name) had boasted, and tolerably wind proof, although in such a storm snow will always force its way through the tiniest crevices. It was built of wattle work, cunningly daubed with clay, even as the early Britons built their lodges. And here slept the great earl, whose name was known through the civilised world, the brother-in-law of the king, the mightiest warrior of his time, and, amongst the laity, the most devout churchman known to fame. In the dead hour of the night, when the darkness is deepest and sleep the soundest, they were both awakened by the opening of the door, and the cold blast of wind it produced. The earl and his squire started up and sat upright on their couches. A woman stood in the doorway, who held a boy by the hand; the eyes of both were red with weeping. “Lady, thou lookest sad; hath aught grieved thee or any one injured thee? the vow of knighthood compels my aid to the distressed.” It was the woman they had noted at the fireside. “Thou art Simon de Montfort,” she said. “I am; how dost thou know me?” “I have met thee before, under other guise. Is liberty dear to thee?” “Without it life is worthless—but who or what threatens it?” “The outlaws, amongst whom thou hast fallen.” “They will not harm me. I have eaten of their salt.” “Nay, but they will hold thee to ransom, and detain thee till it is brought: I heard them amerce thee at a thousand marks.” “In that case, as I do not wish to winter here, I had better up and away; but who will be my guide?” “My son; but thou must do me a service in return—thou must charge thyself with his welfare, for after guiding thee he can return here no more.” “But canst thou part with thine own son?” “I would save him from a life of penury and even crime, and I can trust him to thee.” “Oh, mother!” said the boy, weeping silently. “Nay, Martin, we have often talked of this and longed for such a chance, now it is come—for thine own sake, my darling, the apple of mine eye; this good earl can be trusted.” “Earl Simon,” she said, “I know thee both great and a man who fears God; yes, I know thee, I have long watched for such an opportunity; take this boy, and in saving him save yourself from captivity.” “Tell me his name.” “Martin will suffice.” “But ere I undertake charge of him I would fain learn more, that I may bring him up according to his degree.”