Knollys went to the door, and Richard’s eyes followed him—eyes that seemed to expect a ghost. He saw Fulk enter—Fulk the young man in his own likeness, bareheaded, calm, with a steadfast look about his eyes. And he sat back in his chair, shrinking, moistening his lips. “Son, behold your brother! He is alive, not dead. Give God thanks for it.” A moment’s silence prevailed. It was as though no words were great enough to sound the deeps of that silence. Then Fulk was inspired. He crossed the room and stood before Richard’s chair. “Brother, why should hate live between us? Let us take hands and swear comradeship. Then I will go and trouble you and this land no longer.” Richard rose slowly, falteringly, his eyes on Fulk’s. The other’s manhood seemed to flow into him. His lips grew firmer, his bearing more steady. “Brother!” He bowed his head suddenly, caught at Fulk’s hands, and burst into tears. Again there was silence, save for the sound of his weeping. They let him weep. Presently he raised his head, and his face had a new nobility. “I, Richard of England, stand here in my shame. Mother, look on me with pity.” “Son, there is a new heart in you.” His wet eyes flashed. “Fulk Ferrers, God forgive me my littleness and my coward thoughts. And of you, Sir Robert Knollys, and of you, my Lord of Salisbury, I ask pardon. Tell me, sirs, what can be done?” Knollys drew his sword out of its scabbard. “Knighthood helps in the wars.” Richard looked questioningly at Fulk. “Will you take it at my hands?” “They are a King’s hands.” “Then kneel, brother, kneel.” Fulk knelt, and Knollys’ sword served to give the stroke on the shoulder. “Rise, Sir Fulk Ferrers. If thou art minded to leave this English land, by this shame of mine, thou shalt go as the son of a prince should go.” “Let him have men and money, sir.” Fulk rose, and Richard gave him Knollys’ sword. “Keep it, brother. Knollys shall be recompensed. And I am thinking that thou art leaving something of thyself behind with me. My Lord of Salisbury, let all things be done nobly. It is the King’s will.” CHAPTER XLI They rode back to the Black Mere next morning, and a buxom old gentleman on a white palfrey rode with them, even Father Hilarius, whom Knollys had chartered and sworn to secrecy and discretion. Father Hilarius was a merry soul. He cracked jests by the way, and the sly good humour oozed out of him like honey out of a broken comb. Nothing pleased him better than a marriage. He liked the cup of wine at the end of it, and the sententious benignity of his own words concerning love and the begetting of children. Fulk took the quips in good part. Father Hilarius’s wit blew like a blithe west wind; it harmed nobody on a hot day in summer.