derstood that they brought tidings of 'our Kit'; and Malcolm's story
was listened to with tears of joy by the old lady, while the brother
could not get over his amazement at hearing that Trenton and Kitson had
become a proverb in the camp for oneness in friendship.

'Made it up with Will Trenton! And never fought it out! I'd never know
our Kit again after that!'

His steady bravery, his knighthood, and the King's praise, his having
assisted in saving Lord Glenuskie's life against such odds, did not seem
to strike Wilfred Kitson half as much as the friendship with Trenton, and
Malcolm did not think the regret was very great at the two knights having
given up their intention of returning. 'Our Kit's' place seemed to have
closed up behind him; Wilfred seemed to be too much master to be ready to
give up to the elder brother; and even the mother had learnt to do
without him. 'I'll warrant,' quoth she, 'that now he is a knight and got
used to fine French ways, he'll think nothing good enow for him. And if
he brought Will Trenton with him, I'd not sit at the board with the
fellow.--But ye'll ride over, Wilfred, and take care the minx Agnes knows
what she's lost. Ay, and if you knew of a safe hand, Sir, when the
shearing is over I'd send the lad a purse of nobles to keep up his
knighthood in the camp, forsooth.'

'Certes,' said Malcolm, as after a salt-fish dinner he mounted again, 'if
honest Kitson knew, he would scarce turn back from the camp, where he is
somebody. Shall we find ourselves as little wanted when we get home,
Patie?'

Patrick drew himself up with a happy face of secret assurance. Nothing
could make Lilias forsake him, he well knew.

At Durham they found their good friend Father Akefield, erst Prior of
Coldingham, but who had been violently dispossessed by the House of
Albany in favour of their candidate, Drax, about a year before, and was
thankful to have been allowed with a few English monks to retire across
the Border to the mother Abbey at Durham.

The good father could hardly believe his eyes when he beheld Malcolm, now
a comely and personable young gentleman, less handsome and graceful
indeed than many, but with all his painful personal peculiarities gone,
with none of the scared, imploring look, but with a grave thoughtful
earnestness about his face, as though all that once was timid and
wandering was now fixed and steadfast.

Father Akefield could tell nothing of Lilias since his own expuls