“And now, O men of the greenwood, whom I love so dearly, let me, a child of the greenwood, speak yet a few words about myself. For I am not only the last represent alive of the old English house of Michelham, but also a son of the house of Walderne; Mabel, my mother, being the sister, as many know, of the Lady Sybil. Ah, well. I seek a more continuing city than either Walderne or Michelham, and I want no earthly dignities. Wherever God gives me souls to tend is my home; and He has given it me, O men of the Andredsweald, amongst my countrymen and my kindred, and to Hubert I leave the castle right gladly. Now let there be peace, and let men turn their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks, and hasten the glorious day when the kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdoms of God and His Christ.” “We will. God bless Sir Hubert of Walderne.” “God bless brother Martin.” Drogo was forgotten, as though he had never lived, forgiven and forgotten. And the multitude dispersed, each man to his own home or haunt in the forest, leaving Sir Hubert in possession of the castle of his ancestors, and Martin his guest. Martin’s first wish after his release was, as our readers will imagine, to visit his mother, and assure her of his safety in person. Kynewulf was in waiting to escort him. He had caused a litter to be constructed of the branches of trees, knowing that the severe strain Martin had undergone must have rendered him too weak for so long a journey; and the “merrie men” were only too eager to relieve each other in bearing so precious a burden. “You will find our chieftain very far from well,” said Kynewulf, as he walked by Martin’s side. “He was wounded by one of the arrows from the castle when we came to demand your liberation of Drogo, and the wound has taken a bad turn.” “How does my poor mother bear it?” “Like a true wife and good Englishwoman.” No more was said. Martin lapsed into deep thought until the retreat of the outlaws was attained. There, on a couch strewn with skins and soft herbage, lay the redoubtable Grimbeard; and by his side, nursing him tenderly, Mabel of Walderne. But for this she had been with Martin’s rescuers at the castle, but she could not leave her dying lord, who clung fondly to her now, and would take food from no other hand. The wound he had received had been thought slight, and neglected. Hence it had become serious, and since Kynewulf departed mortification had set in. The mother rose and embraced her “sweet son.” “Thank God!” she said, and led him to his stepfather’s side. Grimbeard raised himself with difficulty, and looked Martin in the face. “Martin is here,” he said. “Let my dying eyes gaze upon him again. “Martin, I have longed for thee. Tell me more about Him thou lovest so deeply.”