near which
spot lay a house of the brethren of Saint John, to which order his
father owed so much. The reader may imagine how this good pilgrim,
who had achieved his task, and come home crowned with honour and
glory, was welcomed.

He himself, "by the blessing of our Lady," had escaped all dangers,
had worshipped at all the Holy Places, paying the usual tribute
demanded by the Paynim. It was a time of truce, and if only Hubert
were as fortunate as he, they might hope to see him within another
twelve months.

But the months passed on. Autumn deepened into winter. The leaves
put on their gayest and rarest garb of russet and gold to die, like
vain things, clothed in their best. Winter, far more severe than in
these days, bound the earth in its icy grasp. And still he came
not.

The spring came on again, and on a fine March day, one of those
days when we have a foretaste of the coming summer, a deep calamity
befell the House of Walderne. Sir Nicholas was thrown from his
horse while hunting, and only brought home to die: he never spoke
again.

The reader may imagine the desolation of the Lady Sybil, thus
deprived of the helpmeet on whom she had leaned so long and loved
so well. They buried him in the vaults of the Castle Chapel, which
his lady had founded. There his friends and retainers followed him,
with tears, to the grave.

And now the very site of that chapel is hidden in a deep wood. It
lies in the dell beneath Walderne Church, and may be traced by
those who do not fear being scratched by brambles. There is no
pathway to it. Sic transit.

Not long after the death of Sir Nicholas, a palmer arrived at the
castle who had more to tell than usual, but not of a reassuring
character--he had been at Saint Jean d'Acre.

Here the voice of the Lady Sybil was heard, and there was instant
silence.

"How long ago was it that he had left Acre?"

"It might be six months."

"Had he heard of a young English knight, for whom all their hearts
were very sore: Sir Hubert of Walderne?"

"No, and yet if the knight had arrived at Acre he must have heard
of it, for all travellers sought the hospitality of the brethren of
Saint John, with whom he lived for six months as a serving brother,
waiting upon their guests."

Dead silence. After a while the lady spoke.

"And had he not heard of the arrival of a vessel from Marseilles,
called the Fleur de Lys?"

"Lady," he replied, "the name brings a sad remembrance of my voyage
hom