the death of a foe so keenly, and Sir Roger had
slain many in fair fight. But this particular case was exceptional.
It had been on a day of solemn truce that, maddened by a real or
supposed insult, he had forced his foe to fight, and met objections
by a blow. And they were both sworn soldiers of the Cross, pledged
not to engage in a less holy warfare. Thence the remorse and the
dread penalty; under such an one many a man has sunk to the grave
{33}. Therefore, as we have said, he dreaded the advent of the
fatal day.

It came, and Sir Roger faced the ordeal alone in his cell, when,
lo! in the dead hour of the night, his tormentor appeared, but no
longer armed with his terrors. His face was changed, his features
resigned and peaceful.

"I come but to bid thee farewell, for so long as thou art in the
flesh. Thy son has fulfilled thy vow. He has placed my sword on the
altar of the Holy Sepulchre, and I am released. Thou hast thy
reward and my forgiveness. May we meet where strife is no more! Him
thou shalt yet see in the flesh, as thy reward."

And he disappeared.

Was it a dream? Well, if so, it gave the father not merely hope but
certainty. He was happy at last, and waited patiently the
fulfilment of the vision.

______________________________________________________________

It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung with
more than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry in
person, who was very devout, and by his son and brother, and all
their train; and special prayers had been added, suitable to the
crisis, to the God of armies and Lord of battles.

So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the great
gates of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, and
the gates were closing, a knight strode up, who had but just
arrived, as he said, from over sea, and had but tarried to put his
horse in good keeping.

He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.

"Art thou with us or against us?" said the warder.

"I am a soldier of the Cross," was the reply, and a few more words
were whispered in the ear.

The warder started back.

"Verily thy father's heart will be glad," he exclaimed.

Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little
changed; but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had
once given his face a haggard and weird look, resignation had
stamped his features with a softer expression.

The dread shadow, whether born of remors