ake the sword
from thy ancestral hall, and wield it in the holy war in thy name.
Then thy vow will be fulfilled, and thou wilt cumber earth no
longer.

"Well, we shall see! But can I send him to that distant land? He
may suffer as I.

"No! no! Son of my love! It may not be.

"Ah, thou departest. It is well. Avaunt thee, poor ghost! Avaunt
thee."

So the night sped away, and when the gates of the castle opened at
sunrise, the palmer passed through them and took the road for
Lewes.

We need hardly say that, in the course of the day after the
ill-fated Roger had departed for Lewes, to bury his sorrows and his
sins within the hallowed walls of the Priory of Saint Pancras, the
Lady Sybil made a full revelation of all the circumstances of his
visit to her husband, Sir Nicholas Harengod.

There was not a moment's doubt in the mind of that worthy knight as
to the proper course to be pursued. Roger must be left to carry out
his own decision--as the most convenient to all parties
concerned--and the son must at once be brought home and
acknowledged as the true heir of Walderne, cum Icklesham, cum Dene,
and I wot not what else. As for poor Drogo, he must be content with
the patrimony of Sir Nicholas--the manor of Harengod.

So Sir Nicholas first sought an interview with his brother-in-law,
Roger, at the priory. He found him on the point of being admitted
to the novitiate, and then started post haste across the
country--northward for Kenilworth--where he arrived in due course,
and was soon closeted with the mighty earl, to whom he revealed the
whole story of the resurrection of Sir Roger of Walderne.

It was indeed a resurrection. At first the earl hardly credited its
possibility; but anon with joy received it, and gave his full
consent for Sir Nicholas to take Hubert away for a time, that he
might make acquaintance with the home of his ancestors, and seek
his father at Lewes.

Much more conversation passed between the knight and the earl, but
we shall have occasion to develop its results as our narrative
proceeds.

So we shall leave our readers to picture the delight and wonder of
Hubert, the jealousy of Drogo, and much besides, while we go to
Oxford to see Martin.

Chapter 7: Martin's First Day At Oxford.

It was a lovely morning in the Eastertide of 1256 when young Martin
looked forth from the window of his hostel at Oxford on the quaint
streets, the stately towers of the semi-monastic city. He was
bound