On a strip of parchment, then, about nine inches long and three wide, he proceeded to indite, in upright cramped letters, with many contractions, nearly in such terms as these— REVEREND AND KNIGHTLY FATHER, The good ghostly father and knight, Sir Raynald Ferrers, hath borne to me your tidings of my brother’s sickness, and of all your goodness to him—whereof I pray that our blessed Lady and good St. John may reward you, for I can only pray for you. Touching his poor little daughter, in case of his death or frenzy, which the Saints of their mercy forefend, I would entreat you of your goodness to place her in some nunnery, but without making known her name and quality until my return; so Heaven bring me home safe. But an if I should be slain in this Eastern land, then were it most for the little one’s good to present her to the gracious lady Princess, by whom she would be most lovingly and naturally cared for; and would be more safe than with such as might shun to own her rights of blood and heirship. Commend me to my brother, if so be that he cares to hear of me; and tell him that Guy hath wedded the lady of a castle in the land of Italy. And so praying you, ghostly father, for your blessing, I greet you well, and rest your grateful bedesman and servant, RICHARD OF LEICESTER. Given at the Prince’s camp at Drepanum, in the realm of Sicilia, on the octave of the Epiphany, in the year of grace MCCLXX.; and so our Lord have you heartily in His keeping. Letter-writing was a mighty task; and Richard’s extemporary implements were not of the best. He laboured hard over his composition, kneeling against a chest in the tent. When at length he raised his head, he encountered a face full of the most utter amazement. Little John of Dunster had come into the tent, and stood gazing at him with open eyes and gaping mouth, as if he were perpetrating an incantation. Richard could not help laughing. “Why, Jack, dost think I am framing a spell for thee?” “Writing!” gasped John, relieving his distended mouth by at length closing it. “Wherefore not? Did not I see the chaplain teaching thee to write at Guildford?” “Ay—but that was when I was a babe! Writing! Why, my father never writes!” “But the Prince does. Thou hast seen him write. Come now,” added Richard: “if thou wilt, I will help thee to write a letter to send thy greetings home to Dunster. Thy father and mother will be right glad to hear thou hast ’scaped that African fever.” “They!—They’d think me no better than a French monk!” said John. “And none of them could read it either! I’ll never write! My grandsire only set his cross to the great charter!” And John retreated—in fear perhaps that Richard would sully his manhood with a writing lesson!