Sir Richard paused and smiled sadly.

’In seven days, then, we returned from our Manors—­from the Manors which had been ours.’

‘And were the children quite well?’ said Una.

‘My sons were young.  Land and governance belong by right to young men.’  Sir Richard was talking to himself.  ’It would have broken their hearts if we had taken back our Manors.  They made us great welcome, but we could see—­Hugh and I could see—­that our day was done.  I was a cripple and he a one-armed man.  No!’ He shook his head.  ’And therefore’—­he raised his voice—­’we rode back to Pevensey.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Una, for the knight seemed very sorrowful.

’Little maid, it all passed long ago.  They were young; we were old.  We let them rule the Manors.  “Aha!” cried De Aquila from his shot-window, when we dismounted.  “Back again to earth, old foxes?” but when we were in his chamber above the Hall he puts his arms about us and says, “Welcome, ghosts!  Welcome, poor ghosts!” ...  Thus it fell out that we were rich beyond belief, and lonely.  And lonely!’

‘What did you do?’ said Dan.

‘We watched for Robert of Normandy,’ said the knight.  ’De Aquila was like Witta.  He suffered no idleness.  In fair weather we would ride along between Bexlei on the one side, to Cuckmere on the other—­sometimes with hawk, sometimes with hound (there are stout hares both on the Marsh and the Downland), but always with an eye to the sea, for fear of fleets from Normandy.  In foul weather he would walk on the top of his tower, frowning against the rain—­peering here and pointing there.  It always vexed him to think how Witta’s ship had come and gone without his knowledge.  When the wind ceased and ships anchored, to the wharf’s edge he would go and, leaning on his sword among the stinking fish, would call to the mariners for their news from France.  His other eye he kept landward for word of Henry’s war against the Barons.

’Many brought him news—­jongleurs, harpers, pedlars, sutlers, priests and the like; and, though he was secret enough in small things, yet, if their news misliked him, then, regarding neither time nor place nor people, he would curse our King Henry for a fool or a babe.  I have heard him cry aloud by the fishing boats:  “If I were King of England I would do thus and thus”; and when I rode out to see that the warning-beacons were laid and dry, he hath often called to me from the shot-window:  “Look to it, Richard!  Do not copy our blind King, but see with thine own eyes and feel with thine own hands.”  I do not think he knew any sort of fear.  And so we lived at Pevensey, in the little chamber above the Hall.

’One foul night came word that a messenger of the King waited below.  We were chilled after a long riding in the fog towards Bexlei, which is an easy place for ships to land.  De Aquila sent word the man might either eat with us or wait till we had fed.  Anon Jehan, at the stair-head, cried that he had called for horse, and was gone.  “Pest on him!” said De Aquila.  “I have more to do than to shiver in the Great Hall for every gadling the King sends.  Left he no word?”