the
Churches, that it speaks of forgiveness to us; but of that pardon we
shall never taste if we forgive not our enemies. Do you mark me, boy?"

Richard hesitated a little, and then said, "Yes, father, but I could
never have pardoned, had I been one of Ragnar's sons."

"It may be that you will be in their case, Richard," said the Duke, "and
should I fall, as it may well be I shall, in some of the contests that
tear to pieces this unhappy Kingdom of France, then, remember what I say
now. I charge you, on your duty to God and to your father, that you keep
up no feud, no hatred, but rather that you should deem me best revenged,
when you have with heart and hand, given the fullest proof of forgiveness
to your enemy. Give me your word that you will."

"Yes, father," said Richard, with rather a subdued tone, and resting his
head on his father's shoulder. There was a silence for a little space,
during which he began to revive into playfulness, to stroke the Duke's
short curled beard, and play with his embroidered collar.

In so doing, his fingers caught hold of a silver chain, and pulling it
out with a jerk, he saw a silver key attached to it. "Oh, what is that?"
he asked eagerly. "What does that key unlock?"

"My greatest treasure," replied Duke William, as he replaced the chain
and key within his robe.

"Your greatest treasure, father! Is that your coronet?"

"You will know one day," said his father, putting the little hand down
from its too busy investigations; and some of the Barons at that moment
returning into the hall, he had no more leisure to bestow on his little
son.

The next day, after morning service in the Chapel, and breakfast in the
hall, the Duke again set forward on his journey, giving Richard hopes he
might return in a fortnight's time, and obtaining from him a promise that
he would be very attentive to Father Lucas, and very obedient to Sir Eric
de Centeville.

CHAPTER II

One evening Fru Astrida sat in her tall chair in the chimney corner, her
distaff, with its load of flax in her hand, while she twisted and drew
out the thread, and her spindle danced on the floor. Opposite to her
sat, sleeping in his chair, Sir Eric de Centeville; Osmond was on a low
bench within the chimney corner, trimming and shaping with his knife some
feathers of the wild goose, which were to fly in a different fashion from
their former one, and serve, not to wing the flight of a harmless goose,
but of a