“Nay,” said the earl, “it may not be. My brother of Warwick, canst thou not forgive him? I will send thee two good hounds in the place of poor Bruno. Dost thou not see the lad has sat in the school of Saint Francis, who pitied and loved everything, great and small, as Adam de Maresco, my good friend at Oxford, tells me, and so all God’s creatures loved him, and came at his call—the birds, nay, the fishes?” “Dost thou believe all this, my boy?” said he of Warwick. “Yes, it is all true, is it not? It is in the _Flores Sancti Francisci_.” The earl smiled. “Come, my boy, I forgive thee. “My good brother of Leicester, the lad is made for a Franciscan; don’t spoil a good friar by making him a warrior.” “And Franciscan he shall be. “Say, my boy, wouldst thou like to go to Oxford and study under my worthy friend, Adam de Maresco?” Martin’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Oh yes, my lord. “Thank you, my Lord of Warwick.” “Thy punishment shall then be exile from the castle; thou may’st cease from the sports of the tilt yard, which thou hast never loved, and Father Edmund shall take thee seriously in hand.” “Oh, thanks, my lord, _O felix dies_.” “See how he takes to Latin, like a duck to the water. “Hubert, thou must go with him.” Hubert’s countenance fell. “Oh no, no, my lord, I want to be a soldier like my father; please don’t send me away. “Oh, Martin, what a fool thou art!” “Fool! fie! for shame! thou forgettest in whose company thou art. Each to his own liking; thou to make food for the sword, Martin perhaps to suffer martyrdom on a gridiron, like Saint Lawrence, amongst the heathen.” “He is the stuff they make martyrs from,” muttered he of Warwick. “No, Hubert, you may stay and work out your own destiny, and Martin shall go to Oxford.” “Oh, Martin, I am so sorry.” But Martin was rapturous with joy. And so, more soberly, was another person joyful—even the chaplain, for he saw the making of a valiant friar of Saint Francis in Martin. That wondrous saint, Francis of Assisi {10}, whose mission it was to restore to the depraved Christianity of the day an element it seemed losing altogether, that of brotherly love, was an embodiment of the sentiment of a later poet: He prayeth best who loveth best, All things both great and small, For the dear God, who loveth us, He made and loveth all. And wondrous was his power over the rudest men and the most savage animals in consequence. All things loved Francis—the most timid animals, the most shy birds, all alike flocked around him when he appeared.