A woman stood in the doorway, who held a boy by the hand; the eyes of both were red with weeping.

“Lady, thou lookest sad; hath aught grieved thee or any one injured thee? the vow of knighthood compels my aid to the distressed.”

It was the woman they had noted at the fireside.

“Thou art Simon de Montfort,” she said.

“I am; how dost thou know me?”

“I have met thee before, under other guise.  Is liberty dear to thee?”

“Without it life is worthless—­but who or what threatens it?”

“The outlaws, amongst whom thou hast fallen.”

“They will not harm me.  I have eaten of their salt.”

“Nay, but they will hold thee to ransom, and detain thee till it is brought:  I heard them amerce thee at a thousand marks.”

“In that case, as I do not wish to winter here, I had better up and away; but who will be my guide?”

“My son; but thou must do me a service in return—­thou must charge thyself with his welfare, for after guiding thee he can return here no more.”

“But canst thou part with thine own son?”

“I would save him from a life of penury and even crime, and I can trust him to thee.”

“Oh, mother!” said the boy, weeping silently.

“Nay, Martin, we have often talked of this and longed for such a chance, now it is come—­for thine own sake, my darling, the apple of mine eye; this good earl can be trusted.”

“Earl Simon,” she said, ’I know thee both great and a man who fears God; yes, I know thee, I have long watched for such an opportunity; take this boy, and in saving him save yourself from captivity.”

“Tell me his name.”

“Martin will suffice.”

“But ere I undertake charge of him I would fain learn more, that I may bring him up according to his degree.”

“He is of noble birth, on both sides; how fallen from such high estate this packet—­entrusted in full confidence—­will tell thee.  Simon de Montfort, I give thee my life, nay, my all; let me hear from time to time how he fareth, through the good monks of Michelham—­thou leavest a bleeding heart behind.”

“Poor woman! yet it is well for the boy; he shall be one of my pages, if he prove worthy.”

“It is all I ask:  now depart ere they are stirring.  It wants about three hours to dawn, the moon shines, the snow has ceased, so that thou wilt reach Michelham in time for early mass.  I will take thee to thine horses.”

She led them forth; the horses were quietly saddled and bridled.  No watch was kept; who could dread a foe at such a time and season?  She opened the gateway in an outer defence of osier work and ditch which encompassed the little settlement.

One maternal kiss—­it was the last.

And the three, earl, squire, and boy, went forth into the night, the boy riding behind the squire.

Chapter 2:  Michelham Priory.