“’Tis a wedding-present for you,” Richard said, savagely, with averted face.  “I thought the one I gave you before would not serve for two weddings.  Though there be but one bride, there should be different gifts.”

Madelon gave one look at Richard; then she opened her hand, and there on her reddened palm lay a little gold pencil, which the boy must have spent all his little savings to buy.  Madelon held it out to him.  “Take it back,” said she; “I want no presents with words like that to sweeten them.”

Richard’s clenched hand hung by his side.  He shook his head sullenly.

“Take it!” said Madelon; but he made no motion to do so.

“Then I shall let it fall on the floor,” said Madelon.

“Let it,” returned Richard, and forthwith the little gold pencil rolled on the floor under the settle, and Madelon turned away with a white face.  But before she had reached the door Richard was at her side and his hand on her arm.  “Oh, Madelon!” he said, striving to keep the sobs back.  Then Madelon turned and laid a hand on each of his shoulders, and held him away, looking at him.

“Why did you speak to me like that?” said she; and then, without waiting for an answer, drew the boy’s head down to her bosom, and held it there a moment, stroking his hair.  “If ever you are sick after I am gone,” said she, “I will come and take care of you; and if you don’t get good things to eat I will see to that, too;” and then she kissed Richard’s dark head, and put him away gently, bidding him with a tender laugh “not to be a baby,” and went over to the settle and picked up the little gold pencil, and praised it and said she would treasure it all her life.

And then she bade Richard follow her into the best room, and opened the carved oak chest and displayed six beautiful shirts made of linen, which she had herself spun and woven and wrought with finest needlework in bands and bosoms, for a parting gift to him, because he was the nearest of all her brothers, though she must not say so.  “The others have shirts enough,” said she; “I have seen to that, for I have meant to do my duty to you all, but none of the others have bosoms and wristbands stitched like these, and the linen is extra fine.”

That night Richard would not go to his chamber, which he shared with his brother Louis, lest he wake and spy his face flushed with tears, but crept stealthily back down-stairs, and, all unbeknown to any one, lay all night on the settle in the living-room.  He slept little, and often waked and wept in the darkness like a child rather than one of the fiery Hautville brothers.