He said a few touching words from this text to those that stood around, as they mourned and wept, and comforting them was comforted himself. But what of her plans for the future? They died with her. None living could gainsay the existing will, and the well-known intentions of Sir Nicholas and his widow, that Drogo should hold all till Hubert returned—in trust for him. But would he then release his hold? Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lord _de facto_ of Walderne. The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert. He knew nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil—only Martin knew this—and Martin could not prove it. Therefore he let things take their course, and hoped for the best. But he determined to watch narrowly over his friend Hubert’s interests, for he still believed that he lived, and would return home again. “We are friends, Drogo?” said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to the greenwood. “Friends,” said Drogo. “We were friends at Kenilworth, were we not? Ah, yes, friends certainly: but I fear I may not often invite you to spend your Sundays here. I am not fond of sermons—keep to the greenwood and I will keep to the castle. But if the earthen pot come into collision with the brazen one, the chances are that the weaker vessel will be broken.” Chapter 20: The Old Man Of The Mountain. Ah, where was our Hubert? No magic mirror have we, wherein you may see him; yet we may lift the veil, after the fashion of storytellers. It is a scorching day in summer, the heat is all but unbearable to Europeans as the rays fall upon that Eastern garden, on the slopes of Lebanon, where a score of Christian slaves toil in fetters, beneath the watchful eyes of their taskmasters, who, clothed in loose white robes and folded turbans, are oblivious of the power of the sun to scorch. There is a young man who toils amidst those vines and melons—yet already he bears the scars of desperate combats, and trouble and adversity have wrought wrinkles on his brow, and added lines of care to a comely face. A slave toiling in an Eastern garden—taskmasters set over him with loaded whips—alas! can this be our Hubert? Indeed it is.