“Art thou the eaglet then, and this the cave? fie!  Hubert.”

“My father was a soldier of the cross.”

“And wouldst thou be a soldier too, my boy? the paths of glory often lead to the grave; thou art safer far as an acolyte here; thou wilt perhaps be prior some day.”

“I covet not safety, my lord.  If my father loved thee, and thou didst love him, take me to thy castle and let me be thy page.  There are no chivalrous exercises here, no tilt yard, only the bell which booms all day long; matins and lauds; prime, terce and sext; vespers and compline; and masses between whiles.”

“My son, be not irreverent.”

The boy lowered his eyes at the reproof.

“Thou shalt go with me.  But, my boy, blame me not if some day thou grieve over the loss of this sweet peace.”

“I love not peace—­it is dull.”

“How wonderful it is that the son should inherit the father’s tastes with his form,” said the earl to the prior.  “When this lad’s sire and I were young together he had just the same ideas, the same restless craving for excitement, and it led him at last to a soldier’s grave.  Well, what is bred in the bone will out in the flesh.

“Hubert, thou shalt go with me to Kenilworth, but it will be a hard and stern school for thee; there are no idlers there.”

“I am not an idler, my good lord.”

“Only over his books,” said the prior.

“That is because I prefer the lance and the bow to pot hooks and hangers on parchment.”

The boy spoke out fearlessly, almost pertly, like a spoiled child.  Yet he had a winning manner, which reconciled his elders to his freedom.

“Now, go back to thy pot hooks and hangers, my boy, for the present,” said the earl; “and tomorrow, perchance, I may take thee with me, if the storm abate.

“And now,” said the earl, when Hubert was gone, “send for the other lad; the waif and stray from the forest.”

So Hubert retired and Martin appeared.  It was by no means an uninteresting face, that which the earl now scanned, but quite unlike the features of Hubert—­a round face, contrasting with the oval outlines of the other—­with twinkling eyes and curling hair; a face which ought to be lit up with smiles, but which was sad for the moment.  Poor boy! he had just parted from his mother.

“Art thou willing to go away with me, my child?”

“Yes,” said he sadly, “since she told me to go; but I love her.”

“Thy name is Martin?”

“Yes; they call me so now.”

“What is thy other name?”

“I know not.  I have no other.”

“Wouldst thou fear to return to the green wood?”

“Yes, for they might call me a traitor, and serve me as they served Jack, the shoe smith, when he betrayed their plans.”

“And how was that?”

“Tied him to a tree and shot him to death with arrows.  How he did scream!”