“Thou hast taken a heavy burden upon thy young shoulders, lad,” said a well-remembered voice in Wendot’s ear, and looking up, he met the calm gaze of Lord Montacute bent upon him; whilst Gertrude, flushing and sparkling, stood close beside her father.  “Thinkest thou that such tempers as those will be easily controlled?”

Wendot’s face was grave, and looked manly in its noble thoughtfulness.

“I know not what to say; but, in truth, I could have given no other answer.  Could I leave my own brethren to languish in captivity, however honourable, when a word from me would free them?  Methinks, sir, thou scarce knowest what freedom is to us wild sons of Wales, or how the very thought of any hindrance to perfect liberty chafes our spirit and frets us past the limit of endurance.  Sooner than be fettered by bonds, however slack, I would spring from yonder casement and dash myself to pieces upon the stones below.  To give my brothers up into unfriendly hands would be giving them up to certain death.  If my spirit could not brook such control, how much less could theirs?”

Gertrude’s soft eyes gave eloquent and sympathetic response.  Wendot had unconsciously addressed his justification to her rather than to her father.  Her quick sympathy gave him heart and hope.  She laid her hand upon his arm and said: 

“I think thou art very noble, Wendot; it was like thee to do it.  I was almost grieved when I heard thee take the charge upon thyself, for I fear it may be one of peril to thee.  But I love thee the more for thy generosity.  Thou wilt be a true and brave knight ere thou winnest thy spurs in battle.”

Wendot’s face flushed with shy happiness at hearing such frank and unqualified praise from one he was beginning to hold so dear.  Lord Montacute laid his hand smilingly on his daughter’s mouth, as if to check her ready speech, and then bidding her join the Lady Joanna, who was making signals to her from the other side of the room, he drew Wendot a little away into an embrasure, and spoke to him in tones of considerable gravity.

“Young man,” he said, “I know not if thou hast any memory left of the words I spake to thee when last we met at Dynevor?”

Wendot’s colour again rose, but his glance did not waver.

“I remember right well,” he answered simply.  “I spoke words then of which I have often thought since —­ words that I have not repented till today, nor indeed till I heard thee pass that pledge which makes thee surety for thy turbulent brothers.”

A quick, troubled look crossed Wendot’s face, but he did not speak, and Lord Montacute continued —­ “I greatly fear that thou hast undertaken more than thou canst accomplish; and that, instead of drawing thy brothers from the paths of peril, thou wilt rather be led by them into treacherous waters, which may at last overwhelm thee.  You are all young together, and many dangers beset the steps of youth.  Thou art true and loyal hearted, that I know well; but thou art a Welshman, and —­”