“And now,” said the earl, when Hubert was gone, “send for the other lad; the waif and stray from the forest.” So Hubert retired and Martin appeared. It was by no means an uninteresting face, that which the earl now scanned, but quite unlike the features of Hubert—a round face, contrasting with the oval outlines of the other—with twinkling eyes and curling hair; a face which ought to be lit up with smiles, but which was sad for the moment. Poor boy! he had just parted from his mother. “Art thou willing to go away with me, my child?” “Yes,” said he sadly, “since she told me to go; but I love her.” “Thy name is Martin?” “Yes; they call me so now.” “What is thy other name?” “I know not. I have no other.” “Wouldst thou fear to return to the green wood?” “Yes, for they might call me a traitor, and serve me as they served Jack, the shoe smith, when he betrayed their plans.” “And how was that?” “Tied him to a tree and shot him to death with arrows. How he did scream!” “What! didst thou see such a sight, a young boy like thee?” “Yes,” said Martin innocently; “why shouldn’t I?” There was a pause. “Poor child,” said the prior. “My boy, thou should say ‘my lord,’ when addressing a titled earl.” “I did not know, my lord. I beg pardon, my lord, if I have been rude, my lord.” “Nay, thou hast already made up the tale of ‘my lords.’” “You will not let them get me again, my lord?” “They couldn’t get in here, and tomorrow, if the storm cease, I shall take thee away with me. Fear not, my poor boy. If thou hast for a while lost a mother, thou hast found a father.” The boy sighed. Affection is not so easily transferred; and the earl quite comprehended that sigh; as a strange interest, almost unaccountable, he thought, sprang up in his manly breast for the little nestling, thrown so strangely upon his protection and care. Brave as a lion with the proud, gentle as a lamb with the weak and defenceless, such was Simon de Montfort, an embodiment of true greatness—the union of strength with love. Both Martin and Hubert were fortunate in their new lord. “There sounds the vesper bell. Wilt thou with me to the chapel?” said the prior. Thither both earl and prior proceeded. It was Wednesday evening; the psalms were then apportioned to the days of the week, not of the month, and the first this night was the one hundred and twenty-seventh: Except the Lord build the house, their labour is but vain that build it. Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman watcheth but in vain. And again: Lo, children and the fruit of the womb are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord. The two boys whom he had so strangely adopted came to the mind of the earl; they were not of his blood, yet they might be “an heritage and gift of the Lord.” And as the psalms rose and fell to the rugged old Gregorian tones—old even then—their words seemed to Simon de Montfort as the voice of God.