"Yes, Roy, because it is night now, and black night too, in your weary brain. Ah! my boy, and to how many in this world is it the same black night. But the hours glide on, the day dawns, and the glorious sun rises again to pierce the thick cloud of darkness, and brighten the gloomy places of the earth. Just as hope and youth and your natural vigour will chase away your black cloud, after the brain has been fallow for a few hours, and you have had your rest." "No, no, no," he groaned; "you cannot tell." "I can tell you, Roy," she said, softly; "and I can tell you, too, that your father is just such another coward as his son." "My father!" cried Roy, springing to his feet, flushed and excited. "My father is the bravest, truest man who ever served the king." "Amen to that, my boy!" said Lady Royland, proudly; "but do you think, Roy, that our bravest soldiers, our greatest warriors, have been men made of iron--cruel, heartless beings, without a thought of the terrible responsibilities of their positions, without a care for the sufferings of the men they lead? I believe it never has been so, and never will. Come, my darling," she continued, clinging to his hands, and drawing herself to her feet--"come here for a little while. There," she said, softly, taking the sword from the couch; "your blade is resting for a while; why should not you? Yes: I wish it; lie right down--for a little while--before we sup. Ah, that is better!" Utterly exhausted now, Roy yielded to her loving hands, and sank back upon the soft couch with a weary sigh; while, as he stretched himself out, she knelt by his side, and tenderly wiped his brow before passing her hands over his face, laying his long hair back over the pillow, and at every touch seeming to bring calm to the weary throbbing brain. After a few minutes he began to mutter incoherently, and Lady Royland leaned back to reach a feather-fan from a side-table, and then softly wafted the air to and fro till the words began to grow more broken, and at last ceased, as the boy uttered a low, weary sigh, his breath grew more regular, and he sank into the deep heavy sleep of exhausted nature. Then the fan dropped from Lady Royland's hand, and she rose to cross the room softly, and with a line draw up the casement of the narrow slit of a window which looked down upon the moat, for the night wind came fresher there than from the main windows looking upon the garden court. Softly returning, she bent down, and with the lightest of fingers untied the collar of her son's doublet and linen shirt, before bending lower, with her long curls drooping round his face, till she could kiss his brow, no longer dank and chilly, but softly, naturally warm. This before sinking upon her knees to watch by his side for the remainder of the night; and as she knelt her lips parted to murmur-- "God save the king--my husband--and our own brave boy!"