'Yes; while my Lady AElueva lived. But she died. She died. Then, my
eldest son being a man, I asked De Aquila's leave that he should hold
the Manor while I went on some journey or pilgrimage--to forget. De
Aquila, whom the Second William had made Warden of Pevensey in Earl
Mortain's place, was very old then, but still he rode his tall, roan
horses, and in the saddle he looked like a little white falcon. When
Hugh, at Dallington, over yonder, heard what I did, he sent for my
second son, whom being unmarried he had ever looked upon as his own
child, and, by De Aquila's leave, gave him the Manor of Dallington to
hold till he should return. Then Hugh came with me.'

'When did this happen?' said Dan.

'That I can answer to the very day, for as we rode with De Aquila by
Pevensey--have I said that he was Lord of Pevensey and of the Honour of
the Eagle?--to the Bordeaux ship that fetched him his wines yearly out
of France, a Marsh man ran to us crying that he had seen a great black
goat which bore on his back the body of the King, and that the goat had
spoken to him. On that same day Red William our King, the Conqueror's
son, died of a secret arrow while he hunted in a forest. "This is a
cross matter," said De Aquila, "to meet on the threshold of a journey.
If Red William be dead I may have to fight for my lands. Wait a little."

'My Lady being dead, I cared nothing for signs and omens, nor Hugh
either. We took that wine-ship to go to Bordeaux; but the wind failed
while we were yet in sight of Pevensey, a thick mist hid us, and we
drifted with the tide along the cliffs to the west. Our company was, for
the most part, merchants returning to France, and we were laden with
wool and there were three couple of tall hunting-dogs chained to the
rail. Their master was a knight of Artois. His name I never learned, but
his shield bore gold pieces on a red ground, and he limped, much as I
do, from a wound which he had got in his youth at Mantes siege. He
served the Duke of Burgundy against the Moors in Spain, and was
returning to that war with his dogs. He sang us strange Moorish songs
that first night, and half persuaded us to go with him. I was on
pilgrimage to forget--which is what no pilgrimage brings. I think I
would have gone, but ...

'Look you how the life and fortune of man changes! Towards morning a
Dane ship, rowing silently, struck against us in the mist, and while we
rolled hither and yon Hugh, leaning over the rail, fel