in battle, knelt
Wulf, his brother--a mighty man, a knight of knights, fearless,
noble, open-hearted; such a one as any woman might well love. And
he also loved Rosamund. Of this Godwin was sure. And, oh! did not
Rosamund love Wulf? Bitter jealousy seized upon his vitals. Yes;
even then and there, black envy got hold of Godwin, and rent him
so sore that, cold as was the place, the sweat poured from his
brow and body.

Should he abandon hope? Should he fly the battle for fear that he
might be defeated? Nay; he would fight on in all honesty and
honour, and if he were overcome, would meet his fate as a brave
knight should--without bitterness, but without shame. Let destiny
direct the matter. It was in the hands of destiny, and stretching
out his arm, he threw it around the neck of his brother, who
knelt beside him, and let it rest there, until the head of the
weary Wulf sank sleepily upon his shoulder, like the head of an
infant upon its mother's breast.

"Oh Jesu," Godwin moaned in his poor heart, "give me strength to
fight against this sinful passion that would lead me to hate the
brother whom I love. Oh Jesu, give me strength to bear it if he
should be preferred before me. Make me a perfect knight--strong
to suffer and endure, and, if need be, to rejoice even in the
joy of my supplanter."

At length the grey dawn broke, and the sunlight, passing through
the eastern window, like a golden spear, pierced the dusk of the
long church, which was built to the shape of a cross, so that
only its transepts remained in shadow. Then came a sound of
chanting, and at the western door entered the Prior, wearing all
his robes, attended by the monks and acolytes, who swung censers.
In the centre of the nave he halted and passed to the
confessional, calling on Godwin to follow. So he went and knelt
before the holy man, and there poured out all his heart. He
confessed his sins. They were but few. He told him of the vision
of his sickness, on which the Prior pondered long; of his deep
love, his hopes, his fears, and his desire to be a warrior who
once, as a lad, had wished to be a monk, not that he might shed
blood, but to fight for the Cross of Christ against the Paynim,
ending with a cry of--

"Give me counsel, O my father. Give me counsel."

"Your own heart is your best counsellor," was the priest's
answer. "Go as it guides you, knowing that, through it, it is God
who guides. Nor fear that you will fail. But if love and the jo