omen are always mourning, somewhere.

York's mind was full of one subject, the forthcoming campaign in France.
He was to sail from Southampton with his royal master in August.
Bedford was to be left Regent, the King's brother--Bedford, who,
whatever else he were, was no Lollard, and was not likely to let a
Lollard escape his fangs. And on this interesting topic York's tongue
ran on glibly--how King Henry meant to march at once upon Paris,
proclaim himself King of France, be crowned at Saint Denis, marry one of
the French Princesses--which, it did not much signify--and return home a
conquering hero, mighty enough to brave even the Emperor himself on any
European battle-plain.

A little lower down the table, Hugh Calverley's mind was also full of
one subject.

"Nay," he whispered earnestly to Bertram: "he is yet hid some whither,--
here, in Wales. Men wit not where; and God forbid too many should!"

"Then men be yet a-searching for him?"

"High and low, leaving no stone unturned. God keep His true servant
safe, unto His honour!"

It needs no far-fetched conjecture to divine that they were speaking of
Lord Cobham.

"And goest unto these French wars, sweet Hugh?"

"Needs must; my Lord's Grace hath so bidden me."

"But thou wert wont to hold that no Christian man should of right bear
arms, neither fight."

"Truth; and yet do," said Hugh quietly. This was the view of the
extreme Lollards.

"Then how shall thine opinion serve in the thick of fight?"

"As it hath aforetime. I cannot fight."

"But how then?" asked Bertram, opening his eyes.

"I can die, Bertram Lyngern," answered the calm, resolute voice. "And
it may be that I should die as truly for my Master Christ there, as at
the martyr's stake. For sith God's will hath made yonder noble Lord my
master, and hath set me under him to do his bidding, in all matters not
sinful, his will is God's will for me; and I can follow him to yonder
battle-plain with as easy an heart and light as though I went to lie
down on my bed to sleep. Not to fight, good friend; not to resist nor
contend with any man; only to do God's will. And is that not worth
dying for?"

Bertram made no reply. But his memory ran far back to the olden days at
Langley--to a scriptorius who had laid down his pen to speak of two
lads, both of whom he looked to see great men, but he deemed him the
greater who was not ashamed of his deed. And Bertram's heart whispered
to him that, knight