“Nay; I have striven in vain that so it might be, but his father, Sir Roger, wills otherwise, and the son can but obey. I see you love him for his own fair face;” (Hubert blushed), “for the deed of valour by which he won his spurs; and for his blood and kindred. But go he will and must, and there is an end of it. “One more announcement I have to make. The father of our Hubert, mindful of the past, wishes to make what reparation is in his power. He bids me announce that he intends to take the life vows in the Priory of Saint Pancras, and to be known from henceforth as Brother Roger; and that his son should be formally adopted by us. He is so in our hearts already, and should bear from henceforth the name of ‘Radulphus,’ or ‘Ralph,’ in memory of his grandfather. “Now I have said all. Render him your homage, swear to be faithful, and acknowledge no other lord when I am gone and while he lives.” They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore to acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived. And he thanked them in a “maiden” speech, so gracefully—just as you would expect of our Hubert. “The Holy Land,” said Sir Nicholas, “is a long way off, and many, as the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their bones there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil and I may live to see his return. But should it be otherwise, acknowledge no other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives.” “We will, God being our helper.” “And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy return.” It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no fear that Hubert would not return safely. Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay of a Christian knight who fell into the power of “a Paynim sultan,” and whom the sultan’s daughter delivered at the risk of her life—all for love. How she followed him from clime to clime, only remembering the Christian name. How she found him at last in his English home, and was united to him, after being baptized, in holy wedlock. How the issue of this marriage was no other than the sainted Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket {23}. And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his secret? He loved her, and had already plighted his troth. “No pagan beauty,” he seemed to whisper, “shall ever rob me of my heart. I leave it behind in England.” And even here he had a rival. It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night? At Harengod, his mother’s demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert had set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir Nicholas, his father’s brother, a relationship which that good knight could never forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love. But the uncle was really afraid to let the youths come together, lest there should be a quarrel, perhaps not confined to words.