Martin himself gave it to his aunt.  She drank it slowly, observed that it had an unusual taste, but not an unpleasant one.

“Martin,” she said, “hast told my sister, thy mother, all that I have said?”

“I have repeated your kind words.”

“And that her home is open for her, should she ever wish to return hither? which may God grant.”

“I have.”

“And I will take care that a clause in her favour is put into my will, which within the week will be witnessed by Earl Warrenne.”

Alas! man proposes but God disposes.  On the following morning the Lady Sybil did not arise at the usual time, nor did she, as was her wont, appear at the morning mass in her chapel.  At length, alarmed by the continued silence, her handmaids ventured to the bedside to arouse her.  She lay as in a peaceful sleep, but stirred not as they approached.  They became alarmed, touched her forehead; it was icy cold.  Then their loud cries brought the household upstairs, Martin, Drogo, and all; and the truth forced itself upon them.  She slept that sleep: 

Which men call death.

Shall we describe the grief of the household?  Nay, we forbear.  All the retainers:  all the neighbourhood, followed her to the tomb.  Martin stood by the open grave; his head bowed in grief; he loved to comfort others, but felt much in need of a consoler himself.

Blessed are they which die in the Lord,
for they rest from their labours.

He said a few touching words from this text to those that stood around, as they mourned and wept, and comforting them was comforted himself.

But what of her plans for the future?  They died with her.  None living could gainsay the existing will, and the well-known intentions of Sir Nicholas and his widow, that Drogo should hold all till Hubert returned—­in trust for him.

But would he then release his hold?

Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lord de facto of Walderne.  The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert.  He knew nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil—­only Martin knew this—­and Martin could not prove it.  Therefore he let things take their course, and hoped for the best.  But he determined to watch narrowly over his friend Hubert’s interests, for he still believed that he lived, and would return home again.

“We are friends, Drogo?” said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to the greenwood.

“Friends,” said Drogo.  “We were friends at Kenilworth, were we not?  Ah, yes, friends certainly:  but I fear I may not often invite you to spend your Sundays here.  I am not fond of sermons—­keep to the greenwood and I will keep to the castle.  But if the earthen pot come into collision with the brazen one, the chances are that the weaker vessel will be broken.”