as not a single token of violence visible about him, save that one
side of his forehead bore a deep purple mark, where he had first been
struck by the blow of the oar which had deprived him of sense.

"See you that, my Lord?" said Count Bernard, first breaking the silence,
in a low, deep, stern voice.

Richard had heard little for many hours past save counsels against the
Flemings, and plans of bitter enmity against them; and the sight of his
murdered father, with that look and tone of the old Dane, fired his
spirit, and breaking from his trance of silent awe and grief, he
exclaimed, "I see it, and dearly shall the traitor Fleming abye it!"
Then, encouraged by the applauding looks of the nobles, he proceeded,
feeling like one of the young champions of Fru Astrida's songs. His
cheek was coloured, his eye lighted up, and he lifted his head, so that
the hair fell back from his forehead; he laid his hand on the hilt of his
father's sword, and spoke on in words, perhaps, suggested by some sage.
"Yes, Arnulf of Flanders, know that Duke William of Normandy shall not
rest unavenged! On this good sword I vow, that, as soon as my arm shall
have strength--"

The rest was left unspoken, for a hand was laid on his arm. A priest,
who had hitherto been kneeling near the head of the corpse, had risen,
and stood tall and dark over him, and, looking up, he recognized the
pale, grave countenance of Martin, Abbot of Jumieges, his father's chief
friend and councillor.

"Richard of Normandy, what sayest thou?" said he, sternly. "Yes, hang
thy head, and reply not, rather than repeat those words. Dost thou come
here to disturb the peace of the dead with clamours for vengeance? Dost
thou vow strife and anger on that sword which was never drawn, save in
the cause of the poor and distressed? Wouldst thou rob Him, to whose
service thy life has been pledged, and devote thyself to that of His foe?
Is this what thou hast learnt from thy blessed father?"

Richard made no answer, but he covered his face with his hands, to hide
the tears which were fast streaming.

"Lord Abbot, Lord Abbot, this passes!" exclaimed Bernard the Dane. "Our
young Lord is no monk, and we will not see each spark of noble and
knightly spirit quenched as soon as it shows itself."

"Count of Harcourt," said Abbot Martin, "are these the words of a savage
Pagan, or of one who has been washed in yonder blessed font? Never,
while I have power, shalt thou darken the ch