“Is this the soul of my son?” he asked of the whiterobed watchers.  “If so, how died he?”

Then the angel at his foot answered:  “He died, red sword aloft, fighting a good fight.”

“Fighting for the Cross of Christ?”

“Nay; fighting for a woman.”

“Fighting for a woman’s love who should have fallen in the Holy War?  Alas! poor son; alas! poor son!  Alas! that we must part again forever!” and his voice, too, passed away.

Lo! a Glory advanced through the blackness, and the angels at head and foot stood up and saluted with their flaming spears.

“How died this child of God?” asked a voice, speaking out of the Glory, a low and awful voice.

“He died by the sword,” answered the angel.

“By the sword of the children of the enemy, fighting in the war of Heaven?”

Then the angels were silent.

“What has Heaven to do with him, if he fought not for Heaven?” asked the voice again.

“Let him be spared,” pleaded the guardians, “who was young and brave, and knew not.  Send him back to earth, there to retrieve his sins and be our charge once more.”

“So be it,” said the voice.  “Knight, live on, but live as a knight of Heaven if thou wouldst win Heaven.”

“Must he then put the woman from him?” asked the angels.

“It was not said,” answered the voice speaking from the Glory.  And all that wild vision vanished.

Then a space of oblivion, and Godwin awoke to hear other voices around him, voices human, well-beloved, remembered; and to see a face bending over him—­a face most human, most well-beloved, most remembered—­that of his cousin Rosamund.  He babbled some questions, but they brought him food, and told him to sleep, so he slept.  Thus it went on, waking and sleep, sleep and waking, till at length one morning he woke up truly in the little room that opened out of the solar or sitting place of the Hall of Steeple, where he and Wulf had slept since their uncle took them to his home as infants.  More, on the trestle bed opposite to him, his leg and arm bandaged, and a crutch by his side, sat Wulf himself, somewhat paler and thinner than of yore, but the same jovial, careless, yet at times fierce-faced Wulf.

“Do I still dream, my brother, or is it you indeed?”

A happy smile spread upon the face of Wulf, for now he knew that Godwin was himself again.

“Me sure enough,” he answered.  “Dream-folk don’t have lame legs; they are the gifts of swords and men.”

“And Rosamund?  What of Rosamund?  Did the grey horse swim the creek, and how came we here?  Tell me quick—­I faint for news!”

“She shall tell you herself.”  And hobbling to the curtained door, he called, “Rosamund, my—­nay, our—­cousin Rosamund, Godwin is himself again.  Hear you, Godwin is himself again, and would speak with you!”