Martin turned to the silent outlaws who stood by, and repeated his words. They listened in silence. The prospect was not new to them, for Martin’s long labours had not been in vain; but while Drogo was at Walderne, and the royal party triumphant, it seemed useless to hope for its realisation. Now things had changed, and there was hope that the breach would be healed. “His last prayer was for peace,” said Grimbeard. “Should not mine be the same? Oh, God, save my country, grant it the blessing of peace, and forgive a poor erring man, who sees, too late, that he has been fighting against Thy dispensation, for he can now say ‘_Thy will be done_.’” These were his last words, and although we have related them as if spoken connectedly, they were really only uttered in broken gasps. The end came; the widow turned aside from the bed after closing the eyes. “Martin,” she said, “thou alone art left to me.” And she fell on his neck and wept. From the grave to the gay, from a death to a wedding, such is life. The same bell which tolls dolorously at a burial clangs in company with its fellows at a marriage on the next day. So the world goes on. The scene was the priory of Saint Pancras at Lewes, where so lately the feeble old king had held his court. Now with his brave son he had gone into honourable captivity, for it was little better, and the followers of Earl Simon filled the place. Before the high altar stood a youthful pair; Hubert of Walderne, now to be known as Radulphus, or Ralph; and Alicia de Grey, who had been sheltered from ill and Drogo as one of the handmaidens of the Countess Eleanor, in keeping for her true love. The good prior, Foville, performed the ceremony and celebrated the mass _Pro sponso et sponsa_. The father, the happy and glad father, stood by, now fully delivered from his ghostly tormentor, his fondest wish on earth achieved. Earl Simon gave the bride away, while Martin stood by, so happy. It was over, and the aisle was strewn with the gay flowers of early summer, as our Hubert and his bride left the sacred pile. But one adieu to the father, who would not leave his monastery even then, but who fell upon Hubert’s neck and wept while he cried, “My son, my dear son, God bless thee;” and the bridal train rode off to the castle above, where the marriage feast was spread. Then Earl Simon to his onerous duties, and the happy pair to keep their honeymoon at Walderne. Oh, the joy of that leafy month of June, in the wild woods, all loosed from care. Hubert seemed to have found true happiness, if it could be found on earth. And Martin, he too was happy, in his work of love and reconciliation. It was an oasis in life’s pilgrimage, when man might well fancy he had found an Eden upon earth again. And there we would fain leave our two friends and cousins. Epilogue.