THE chapel at the Spital was open to all who chose to attend. The deep choir was filled with the members of the Order, half a dozen knights in the stalls, and the novices and serving-brothers so ranged as to give full effect to the body of voice. Richard knelt on the stone floor outside the choir, intending after early mass to seek his brother; but to his surprise he found the blind man with his child at his feet in what was evidently his accustomed place, just within the door. His hair and beard were now arranged, his appearance was no longer squalid; but when he rose to depart, guided in part by the child, but also groping with a stick, he looked even more helpless than on his bed, and Richard sprang forward to proffer an arm for his support. “Flemish cloth and frieze gown,” said the object of his solicitude in a strange gibing voice; “court page and street beggar—how now, my master?” “Lord Earl and elder brother,” returned Richard, “thine is my service through life.” “Mine? Ho, ho! That much for thy service!” with a disdainful gesture of his fingers. “A strapping lad like thee would be the ruin of my trade. I might as well give up bag and staff at once.” “Nay, surely, wilt thou not?” exclaimed Richard in broken words from his extreme surprise. “The King and Prince only long to pardon and restore, and—” “And thou wouldst well like to lord it at Kenilworth, earl in all but the name? Thou mayst do so yet without being cumbered with me or mine!” “Thou dost me wrong, Henry,” said Richard, much distressed. “I love the Prince, for none so truly honoured our blessed father as he, and for his sake he hath been most kind lord to me; but thou art the head of my house, my brother, and with all my heart do I long to render thee such service as—as may lighten these piteous sufferings.” “I believe thee, Richard; thou wert ever an honest simple-hearted lad,” said Henry, in a different tone; “but the only service thou canst render me is to let me alone, and keep my secret. Here—I feel that we are at the stone bench, where I bask in the sun, and lay out my dish for the visitors of the gracious Order.—Here, Bessee, child, put the dish down,” he added, retaining his hold of his brother, as if to feel whether Richard winced at this persistence in his strange profession. The little girl obeyed, and betook herself to the quiet sports of a lonely child, amusing herself with Leonillo, and sometimes returning to her father and obtaining his attention for a few moments, sometimes prattling to some passing brother of the Order, who perhaps made all the more of the pretty creature because this might be called an innocent breach of discipline. “And now, Master Page,” said Henry in his tone of authority, yet with some sarcasm, “let us hear how long-legged Edward finished the work he had began on thee at Hereford—made thee captive in the battle, eh?”