ey. I see you
love him for his own fair face;" (Hubert blushed), "for the deed of
valour by which he won his spurs; and for his blood and kindred.
But go he will and must, and there is an end of it.

"One more announcement I have to make. The father of our Hubert,
mindful of the past, wishes to make what reparation is in his
power. He bids me announce that he intends to take the life vows in
the Priory of Saint Pancras, and to be known from henceforth as
Brother Roger; and that his son should be formally adopted by us.
He is so in our hearts already, and should bear from henceforth the
name of 'Radulphus,' or 'Ralph,' in memory of his grandfather.

"Now I have said all. Render him your homage, swear to be faithful,
and acknowledge no other lord when I am gone and while he lives."

They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore
to acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived.

And he thanked them in a "maiden" speech, so gracefully--just as
you would expect of our Hubert.

"The Holy Land," said Sir Nicholas, "is a long way off, and many,
as the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their
bones there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil
and I may live to see his return. But should it be otherwise,
acknowledge no other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives."

"We will, God being our helper."

"And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy
return."

It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no
fear that Hubert would not return safely.

Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay
of a Christian knight who fell into the power of "a Paynim sultan,"
and whom the sultan's daughter delivered at the risk of her
life--all for love. How she followed him from clime to clime, only
remembering the Christian name. How she found him at last in his
English home, and was united to him, after being baptized, in holy
wedlock. How the issue of this marriage was no other than the
sainted Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket {23}.

And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his
aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his
secret? He loved her, and had already plighted his troth.

"No pagan beauty," he seemed to whisper, "shall ever rob me of my
heart. I leave it behind in England."

And even here he had a rival.

It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Dro