t be a true and brave knight ere thou winnest thy
spurs in battle."

Wendot's face flushed with shy happiness at hearing such frank and
unqualified praise from one he was beginning to hold so dear. Lord
Montacute laid his hand smilingly on his daughter's mouth, as if to
check her ready speech, and then bidding her join the Lady Joanna, who
was making signals to her from the other side of the room, he drew
Wendot a little away into an embrasure, and spoke to him in tones of
considerable gravity.

"Young man," he said, "I know not if thou hast any memory left of the
words I spake to thee when last we met at Dynevor?"

Wendot's colour again rose, but his glance did not waver.

"I remember right well," he answered simply. "I spoke words then of
which I have often thought since -- words that I have not repented till
today, nor indeed till I heard thee pass that pledge which makes thee
surety for thy turbulent brothers."

A quick, troubled look crossed Wendot's face, but he did not speak, and
Lord Montacute continued -- "I greatly fear that thou hast undertaken
more than thou canst accomplish; and that, instead of drawing thy
brothers from the paths of peril, thou wilt rather be led by them into
treacherous waters, which may at last overwhelm thee. You are all young
together, and many dangers beset the steps of youth. Thou art true and
loyal hearted, that I know well; but thou art a Welshman, and --"

He paused and stopped short, and Wendot answered, not without pride:

"I truly am a Welshman -- it is my boast to call myself that. If you
fear to give your daughter to one of that despised race, so be it. I
would not drag her down to degradation; I love her too well for that.
Keep her to thyself. I give thee back thy pledge."

Lord Montacute smiled as he laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder.

"So hot and hasty, Wendot, as hasty as those black-haired twins. Yet,
boy, I like thee for thy outspoken candour, and I would not have thee
change it for the smooth treachery of courtly intrigue. If I had nought
else to think of, I would plight my daughter's hand to thee, an ye both
were willing, more gladly than to any man I know. But, Wendot, she is
mine only child, and very dear to me. There are others who would fain
win her smiles, others who would be proud to do her lightest behest. She
is yet but a child. Perchance she has not seriously considered these
matters. Still there will come a time when she will do so, and --