“But I shall even yet fulfil my vow, and the vow of the man I slew, through my boy, when he has gained his spurs.  My sinful steps are not permitted to press that soil, once trodden by those blessed feet, nailed for our salvation to the holy rood.  Hubert will live and bear the sword of the slain Sieur de Fievrault, sans peur et sans reproche.  Then I may lay me down in peace and take my rest.”

“Will thou not see my husband?”

“I cannot reveal myself here in this castle to any one but thee, and as my tormentor pays his visits again, I will betake me to the Priory of Lewes.”

“And must thou leave thy ancestral halls, and bury thyself again, my brother?”

“I must.  My task is done.  I came but to feast my eyes with the sight of thee, and to tell thee that thy nephew, the true heir of Walderne, lives, satisfied that thou wilt not now allow him to be defrauded of his rights.”

“Why not reveal thyself to my husband?”

“I cannot—­at least not in this house; but in the morn, after I have parted for Lewes. tell him all.”

“And what proofs shall I give if he ask them?”

“Let him seek me at Lewes or, better still, refer to Simon de Montfort, who is the guardian of the boy, and has him in safe keeping at Kenilworth.”

“Sybil,” cried a voice.

“It is my husband.  I must go.  Farewell, dearly loved, unhappy brother.”

And she departed, leaving him alone in the chapel.

Hours had passed by, the inmates of the castle at Walderne all slept, still as the sleeping woods around, save only the watchman on the walls, for in those days of nightly rapine and daily violence no castle or house of any pretensions dispensed with such a guard.

Save only the watcher on the walls, and a lonelier watcher in the chapel.  For there, in the sanctuary his sister had erected, knelt the returned prodigal, unknown to all save that sister.  His heart was full of deep emotion, as well it might be.  And thus he mused: 

“This chapel was not here in my father’s time.  There were few lessons to be learnt then, save those of strife and violence.  What wonder that when he set me the example, my young blood ran too hotly in my veins, and that I finished my career of violence and riot by slaying the rival who stood in my path?  Yet was it done, not in cold blood but in fair fight.  Still, he was my cousin, a favourite of my sire, who never forgave me, but drove me from home to make reparation in the holy wars.  Then on the way to the land of expiation I must needs again stain my sword with Christian blood, and that on a day when it was sacrilege to draw sword.

“But I repent, I repent.  O Lord, let the Blood which flowed on that very day down the Holy Rood blot out my sins, atone for my transgressions.

“Nay, he appears, as oft before, and stands before me as when I transfixed him on the quay at Malta.

“Avaunt, unquiet spirit.  My feet have pressed the soil hallowed by the Sacred Blood.  Avaunt, for I appeal from thy malice to God.  Was it not thou who didst provoke, and wouldst fain have slain me?  What was my act but one of self defence, defence first of honour, then of life?”