They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore to acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived.

And he thanked them in a “maiden” speech, so gracefully—­just as you would expect of our Hubert.

“The Holy Land,” said Sir Nicholas, “is a long way off, and many, as the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their bones there.  But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil and I may live to see his return.  But should it be otherwise, acknowledge no other heir.  Be true to Hubert, while he lives.”

“We will, God being our helper.”

“And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy return.”

It was done lustily:  if mere drinking could do it, there was no fear that Hubert would not return safely.

Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay of a Christian knight who fell into the power of “a Paynim sultan,” and whom the sultan’s daughter delivered at the risk of her life—­all for love.  How she followed him from clime to clime, only remembering the Christian name.  How she found him at last in his English home, and was united to him, after being baptized, in holy wedlock.  How the issue of this marriage was no other than the sainted Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket {23}.

And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze.  Shall we tell his secret?  He loved her, and had already plighted his troth.

“No pagan beauty,” he seemed to whisper, “shall ever rob me of my heart.  I leave it behind in England.”

And even here he had a rival.

It was Drogo.  The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night?  At Harengod, his mother’s demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert had set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir Nicholas, his father’s brother, a relationship which that good knight could never forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love.  But the uncle was really afraid to let the youths come together, lest there should be a quarrel, perhaps not confined to words.

He had spoken his mind decidedly to Drogo about the question of inheritance.  Hubert should, if he survived the pilgrimage, be Lord of Walderne, as was just, Drogo of Harengod:  if either died without issue, the other should have both domains.

Of course Sir Nicholas was quite unaware that the third child of the old lord, Mabel, had left issue.  Do our readers remember it?  Drogo had no real claim on Walderne, and could only succeed by disposition of Sir Nicholas, in the absence of natural heirs.

When the party in the hall broke up about midnight, one parting interview took place between the lovers in Lady Sybil’s bower, while the kind lady got as far as her notions of propriety (which were very strict) permitted, out of earshot.

Oh, those poor young lovers!  She cried, and although Hubert tried hard to restrain it, it was infectious, and he couldn’t help a tear.  But he must go!