the caldron. Strong ale, or mead, was
handed round, of which our brethren partook but sparingly. When the
meal was over Grimbeard spoke:

"We generally Test awhile and chew the cud after our midday meal,
for our craft keeps us awake a great deal by night; and perhaps
your tramp through the woods has made you tired also. Rest, and
after the sun has sunk beneath the branches of yon pine you may
deliver the message you spoke about."

Then the hoary chieftain retired to the shade of his hut, as did
some of the others to theirs, but the majority reclined under the
spreading beeches, as did our two brethren.

They slept through the meridian heat. One sentinel alone watched,
and so secure felt the outlaws in their deep seclusion that even
this precaution was felt to be a mere matter of form.

And at length a horn was blown, and the whole settlement awoke to
active life.

"Call the brethren of Saint Francis," said the chief. "Now we are
ready. Sit round, my merrie men."

It was a picture worthy the pencil of that great student of the
wild and picturesque, Salvator Rosa; the groups of brawny outlaws,
with their women and children, all disposed carelessly on the
grass, with the background of dark hill and wood, or of hollow
rock, while Martin, standing on a conspicuous hillock, began his
message.

With wondrous skill he told the tale of Redeeming Love. His
enthusiasm mounting as he spoke. The bright colour reddening his
face, his eyes sparkling with animation, is beyond our power to
tell, and the result was such as was common in the early days of
the Franciscan missions. Women, yea, and men too, were moved to
tears.

But in the most solemn appeal of all, suddenly a woman's voice
broke the intensity of the silence in which the preacher's words
were received:

"My son--my own son--my dear son."

The speaker had not been at the dinner, and had only just returned
from the woods, wherein she often wandered. For this was Mabel, the
chieftain's wife, or "Mad Mab," as they flippantly called her, and
only on hearing from afar the unwonted sound of preaching in the
camp had she been drawn in. The voice thrilled upon her memory as
she drew nearer, and when she entered the circle--we may well say
the charmed circle--she stood entranced, until at last conviction
grew into certainty, and she woke the enchantment of the preacher's
voice by her cry of maternal love.

She was not far beyond the prime of life. Her face had once b