“Tell me, what hast thou heard?” asked Raymond eagerly.

“Why, that it is but an ancient Manor, of no great value or extent, and that the old man who dwells there with his son is little different from a sorcerer, whom it is not safe to approach —­ at least not with intent to meddle.  Men say that he is in league with the devil, and that he has sold his soul for the philosopher’s stone, that changes all it touches to gold.  They say, too, that those who offend him speedily sicken of some fell disease that no medicine can cure.  Though he must have wondrous wealth, he has let his house fall into gloomy decay.  No man approaches it to visit him, and he goes nowhither himself.  His son, Peter, who seems as little beloved as his father, goes hither and thither as he will.  But it is whispered that he shares in his father’s dealings with the Evil One, and that he will reap the benefit of the golden treasure which has been secured to them.  However that may be, all men agree that the Sanghursts of Basildene are not to be meddled with with impunity.”

Raymond’s face was very thoughtful.  Such a warning as this, lightly as it would be regarded in the present century, meant something serious then; and Raymond instinctively crossed himself as he heard Gaston’s words.  But after a moment’s pause of thoughtful silence he said gravely: 

“Yet perhaps on this very account ought we the rather to strive to win our inheritance out of such polluted hands.  Have we not others to think of in this thing?  Are there not those living beneath the shelter of Basildene who must be suffering under the curse that wicked man is like to bring upon it?  For their sakes, Gaston, ought we not to do all in our power to make good our rights?  Are they to be left to the mercy of one whose soul is sold to Satan?”

Gaston looked quickly into his brother’s flushed face, and wondered at the sudden enthusiasm beaming out of his eyes.  But he had already recognized that a change was passing over Raymond, even as a change of a different kind was coming upon himself.  He did not entirely understand it, neither did he resent it; and now he threw his arm across his brother’s shoulder in the old caressing fashion of their boyhood.

“Nay, I know not how that may be.  There may be found those who dare to war against the powers of darkness, and with the help of the holy and blessed saints they may prevail.  But that is not the strife after which my heart longs.  Raymond, I fear me I love not Basildene, I love not the thought of making it our own.  It is for the glory of the battlefield and the pomp and strife of true warfare that I long.  There are fairer lands to be won by force of arms than ever Basildene will prove, if all men speak sooth.  Who and what are we, to try our fortunes and tempt destruction by drawing upon ourselves the hatred of this wicked old man, who may do us to death in some fearful fashion, when else we might be winning fame and glory upon the plains of France?  Let us leave Basildene alone, Brother; let us follow the fortunes of the great King, and trust to his noble generosity for the reward of valour.”