The Lady Sybil never trusted Drogo thoroughly.  She had strong predispositions against him:  and quite accepted Hubert’s version of the quarrel at Kenilworth which, under Drogo’s manipulation, assumed a much more innocent aspect than the one in which it was presented to our readers.

Sir Nicholas was at last won over to believe that the youth was not so bad after all, the more so as Drogo disavowed all further designs or claims upon the inheritance of Walderne, now that the proper heir was so happily discovered.  Harengod would content him, and when the clouds had blown over, he trusted that there would always be peace between Harengod and Walderne.

So the months of summer sped by.  News arrived of Hubert’s visit to Fievrault, and of the dread portents described in a former chapter, whereat was much marvel.  Nought was said of the prophecy, for Hubert did not wish to put such forebodings in the minds of his relations.  He had rather they should look hopefully to his return.  Poor Hubert!

Then they heard, a month later, of his departure from Marseilles.  The news was brought by a pilgrim who had just returned from the Holy Land, and met Hubert and his party about to embark, purposing to sail to Acre, in a vessel called the Fleur de Lys, near which spot lay a house of the brethren of Saint John, to which order his father owed so much.  The reader may imagine how this good pilgrim, who had achieved his task, and come home crowned with honour and glory, was welcomed.

He himself, “by the blessing of our Lady,” had escaped all dangers, had worshipped at all the Holy Places, paying the usual tribute demanded by the Paynim.  It was a time of truce, and if only Hubert were as fortunate as he, they might hope to see him within another twelve months.

But the months passed on.  Autumn deepened into winter.  The leaves put on their gayest and rarest garb of russet and gold to die, like vain things, clothed in their best.  Winter, far more severe than in these days, bound the earth in its icy grasp.  And still he came not.

The spring came on again, and on a fine March day, one of those days when we have a foretaste of the coming summer, a deep calamity befell the House of Walderne.  Sir Nicholas was thrown from his horse while hunting, and only brought home to die:  he never spoke again.

The reader may imagine the desolation of the Lady Sybil, thus deprived of the helpmeet on whom she had leaned so long and loved so well.  They buried him in the vaults of the Castle Chapel, which his lady had founded.  There his friends and retainers followed him, with tears, to the grave.

And now the very site of that chapel is hidden in a deep wood.  It lies in the dell beneath Walderne Church, and may be traced by those who do not fear being scratched by brambles.  There is no pathway to it.  Sic transit.

Not long after the death of Sir Nicholas, a palmer arrived at the castle who had more to tell than usual, but not of a reassuring character—­he had been at Saint Jean d’Acre.