But these subjects did not interest him near so much as his own private affairs; and I can fancy that his legs trembled under him, and his pilgrim’s staff shook with emotion, as at length, after many perils, he came in sight of his paternal mansion of Rotherwood, and saw once more the chimneys smoking, the shadows of the oaks over the grass in the sunset, and the rooks winging over the trees.  He heard the supper gong sounding:  he knew his way to the door well enough; he entered the familiar hall with a benedicite, and without any more words took his place.

*****

You might have thought for a moment that the gray friar trembled and his shrunken cheek looked deadly pale; but he recovered himself presently:  nor could you see his pallor for the cowl which covered his face.

A little boy was playing on Athelstane’s knee; Rowena smiling and patting the Saxon Thane fondly on his broad bullhead, filled him a huge cup of spiced wine from a golden jug.  He drained a quart of the liquor, and, turning round, addressed the friar:—­

“And so, gray frere, thou sawest good King Richard fall at Chalus by the bolt of that felon bowman?”

“We did, an it please you.  The brothers of our house attended the good King in his last moments:  in truth, he made a Christian ending!”

“And didst thou see the archer flayed alive?  It must have been rare sport,” roared Athelstane, laughing hugely at the joke.  “How the fellow must have howled!”

“My love!” said Rowena, interposing tenderly, and putting a pretty white finger on his lip.

“I would have liked to see it too,” cried the boy.

“That’s my own little Cedric, and so thou shalt.  And, friar, didst see my poor kinsman Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe?  They say he fought well at Chalus!”

“My sweet lord,” again interposed Rowena, “mention him not.”

“Why?  Because thou and he were so tender in days of yore—­when you could not bear my plain face, being all in love with his pale one?”

“Those times are past now, dear Athelstane,” said his affectionate wife, looking up to the ceiling.

“Marry, thou never couldst forgive him the Jewess, Rowena.”

“The odious hussy! don’t mention the name of the unbelieving creature,” exclaimed the lady.

“Well, well, poor Wil was a good lad—­a thought melancholy and milksop though.  Why, a pint of sack fuddled his poor brains.”

“Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe was a good lance,” said the friar.  “I have heard there was none better in Christendom.  He lay in our convent after his wounds, and it was there we tended him till he died.  He was buried in our north cloister.”

“And there’s an end of him,” said Athelstane.  “But come, this is dismal talk.  Where’s Wamba the Jester?  Let us have a song.  Stir up, Wamba, and don’t lie like a dog in the fire!  Sing us a song, thou crack-brained jester, and leave off whimpering for bygones.  Tush, man!  There be many good fellows left in this world.”