st."

Should he send it back?

"No, no!"

He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it.

"I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thou
art mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design."

Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the opposite
powers.

We will not follow the royal army on its onward march to the seacoast,
where they hoped to secure the two Cinque Ports--Winchelsea and Pevensey,
so as to keep open their communications with the continent. How Peter of
Savoy, the then lord of the "Eagle," entertained them at the Norman
castle, which had arisen on the ruins of Anderida; how they sacked
Hamelsham and ravaged Herstmonceux. Then, finally, took up their quarters
at Lewes; the king, as became his piety, at the priory; the prince, as
became his youth, at the castle with John, Earl de Warrenne; to await the
approach of the barons.

______________________________________________________________

There, in that priory, anticipating the rest which awaiteth the
people of God, the once fiery and headlong prodigal, Roger of
Walderne, spent his peaceful old age. He was quite happy about his
gallant son, and felt assured that he should not die until he had
once more clasped him to his paternal breast, when he would
joyfully chant his Nunc Dimittis.

On that very night when Hubert thought that his father came to his
cell, with assurance of hope, the father too dreamed that he saw
his son in that cell, and gave him the comforting assurance
related; and when he awoke he said;

"Hubert my son is yet alive. I shall see him ere I die. I had given
the first born of my body for the sin of my soul, but God hath
provided a better offering, and Isaac shall be restored."

But yet another strange occurrence confirmed his hope and faith.
For a long time the ghostly apparition had ceased to trouble him.
Its appearances had been but occasional since he took refuge in the
house of God, but still it did sometimes reappear. The sceptic will
see in the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodily
form, but even if only the creature of the imagination, it was
equally real to the sufferer.

One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatal
day when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had that
day passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record his
adversary's dying day. It was strange that, in those fighting days,
a man should feel