impleton--I was going to say a chicken-hearted simpleton,
but he was brave enough when his own neck seemed in danger, nor
does he fear much for his back now--

"What dost thou say, boy?"

"My lord, if I have offended you, I refuse not to pay with my
back."

"Get ready for the scourge, then," said the earl his lord, half
smiling, and evidently trying his courage, "unless thou wilt say
thou art sorry for thy deed."

"I am ready, my lord. I would say anything I could say without
lying, rather than offend thee, but what am I to do? Let me bear
what I have to bear."

"Nay," said the earl, "it may not be. My brother of Warwick, canst
thou not forgive him? I will send thee two good hounds in the place
of poor Bruno. Dost thou not see the lad has sat in the school of
Saint Francis, who pitied and loved everything, great and small, as
Adam de Maresco, my good friend at Oxford, tells me, and so all
God's creatures loved him, and came at his call--the birds, nay,
the fishes?"

"Dost thou believe all this, my boy?" said he of Warwick.

"Yes, it is all true, is it not? It is in the Flores Sancti
Francisci."

The earl smiled.

"Come, my boy, I forgive thee.

"My good brother of Leicester, the lad is made for a Franciscan;
don't spoil a good friar by making him a warrior."

"And Franciscan he shall be.

"Say, my boy, wouldst thou like to go to Oxford and study under my
worthy friend, Adam de Maresco?"

Martin's eyes sparkled with delight.

"Oh yes, my lord.

"Thank you, my Lord of Warwick."

"Thy punishment shall then be exile from the castle; thou may'st
cease from the sports of the tilt yard, which thou hast never
loved, and Father Edmund shall take thee seriously in hand."

"Oh, thanks, my lord, O felix dies."

"See how he takes to Latin, like a duck to the water.

"Hubert, thou must go with him."

Hubert's countenance fell.

"Oh no, no, my lord, I want to be a soldier like my father; please
don't send me away.

"Oh, Martin, what a fool thou art!"

"Fool! fie! for shame! thou forgettest in whose company thou art.
Each to his own liking; thou to make food for the sword, Martin
perhaps to suffer martyrdom on a gridiron, like Saint Lawrence,
amongst the heathen."

"He is the stuff they make martyrs from," muttered he of Warwick.

"No, Hubert, you may stay and work out your own destiny, and Martin
shall go to Oxford."

"Oh, Martin, I am so sorry."

But Martin was rapturous with joy.

And so, mo