The young lord of Aescendune remembered his designation of himself as an exile, and forbore to inquire, lest he should unawares renew some ancient wound.

The manner in which the knight addressed his young companion had something in it of tender interest; his voice sounded like that of one who spake with emotion forcibly suppressed.

“Thy mother is yet living?” said he, with forced calmness.

“She mourns our absence in the halls of Aescendune, yet she could not grudge us to the Cross, and methinks she finds consolation in many a holy deed of mercy and charity.”

“Hast thou any brethren, or art thou her only child?”

“Nay, we are four in number—­two boys and two girls.  My brother Hugh is destined to be the future lord of Malville, and I, if I survive, shall inherit Aescendune.”

“Thy mother, my boy, must miss thee sadly.  How bore she the pain of separation?”

“Religion came to her aid, and does still.  I can fancy her each morning as she kneels before the altar of St. Wilfred, and wearies heaven with prayer for her absent lord and her boy, and perhaps those prayers sent thee to my deliverance this night.”

“Thrice blessed they who have so pious a mother.  The Priory of St. Wilfred didst thou say?  Methinks he was an English saint.”

“It is the third building which has existed within the century on the spot.  The first was burnt in the troubles which followed the Conquest; the second, dedicated to St. Denys, shared the same fate, and when the present priory was built, my father, who had brought his English wife from the convent of the Holy Trinity at Caen, where she received her education, restored the old dedication, as I imagine to give her pleasure.”

“Thy father, thou sayest, is with thee in this land?”

“He has gone forward with the host to the siege of the Holy City.  I was wounded on that glorious day when we scattered half a million followers of Mohammed, who had penned us within the walls of Antioch; and he left me with this faithful squire, Osmund—­an old man who fought with my grandsire at Hastings—­to tarry in the city till I should be fit to travel.  Now we are journeying southward in haste, fearing we shall be too late for our share in the holy work.  Dost thou not travel thitherward—­thou of all men?”

“Even now I hasten, lest my unworthy eyes should fail to behold the deliverance of that Holy Sepulchre whence my designation is taken.  We will travel together, so will thy journey be safer, for these Turks hang like carrion upon the skirts of the grand army.”

“Blithely do I accept thine offer.  I would not willingly perish in some obscure skirmish when the gates of Jerusalem are as the gates of heaven before me, and I shall present my preserver to my father.  Are you ill again—­I fear me—­”

“It is nothing.  Earthly feelings must not be permitted to mingle with our sacred call.”