Shall we describe the grief of the household? Nay, we forbear. All
the retainers: all the neighbourhood, followed her to the tomb.
Martin stood by the open grave; his head bowed in grief; he loved
to comfort others, but felt much in need of a consoler himself.

Blessed are they which die in the Lord,
for they rest from their labours.

He said a few touching words from this text to those that stood
around, as they mourned and wept, and comforting them was comforted
himself.

But what of her plans for the future? They died with her. None
living could gainsay the existing will, and the well-known
intentions of Sir Nicholas and his widow, that Drogo should hold
all till Hubert returned--in trust for him.

But would he then release his hold?

Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lord de
facto of Walderne. The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and
could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the
will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert. He knew
nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil--only Martin knew
this--and Martin could not prove it. Therefore he let things take
their course, and hoped for the best. But he determined to watch
narrowly over his friend Hubert's interests, for he still believed
that he lived, and would return home again.

"We are friends, Drogo?" said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to
the greenwood.

"Friends," said Drogo. "We were friends at Kenilworth, were we not?
Ah, yes, friends certainly: but I fear I may not often invite you
to spend your Sundays here. I am not fond of sermons--keep to the
greenwood and I will keep to the castle. But if the earthen pot
come into collision with the brazen one, the chances are that the
weaker vessel will be broken."

Chapter 20: The Old Man Of The Mountain.

Ah, where was our Hubert?

No magic mirror have we, wherein you may see him; yet we may lift
the veil, after the fashion of storytellers.

It is a scorching day in summer, the heat is all but unbearable to
Europeans as the rays fall upon that Eastern garden, on the slopes
of Lebanon, where a score of Christian slaves toil in fetters,
beneath the watchful eyes of their taskmasters, who, clothed in
loose white robes and folded turbans, are oblivious of the power of
the sun to scorch. There is a young man who toils amidst those
vines and melons--yet already he bears the scars of desperate
combats, and trouble and adversity have w