There was a swift rustle of robes and a sound of quick feet among the rushes that strewed the floor, and then—­Rosamund herself, lovely as ever, but all her stateliness forgot in joy.  She saw him, the gaunt Godwin sitting up upon the pallet, his grey eyes shining in the white and sunken face.  For Godwin’s eyes were grey, while Wulf’s were blue, the only difference between them which a stranger would note, although in truth Wulf’s lips were fuller than Godwin’s, and his chin more marked; also he was a larger man.  She saw him, and with a little cry of delight ran and cast her arms about him, and kissed him on the brow.

“Be careful,” said Wulf roughly, turning his head aside, “or, Rosamund, you will loose the bandages, and bring his trouble back again; he has had enough of blood-letting.”

“Then I will kiss him on the hand—­the hand that saved me,” she said, and did so.  More, she pressed that poor, pale hand against her heart.

“Mine had something to do with that business also but I don’t remember that you kissed it, Rosamund.  Well, I will kiss him too, and oh!  God be praised, and the holy Virgin, and the holy Peter, and the holy Chad, and all the other holy dead folk whose names I can’t recall, who between them, with the help of Rosamund here, and the prayers of the Prior John and brethren at Stangate, and of Matthew, the village priest, have given you back to us, my brother, my most beloved brother.”  And he hopped to the bedside, and throwing his long, sinewy arms about Godwin embraced him again and again.

“Be careful,” said Rosamund drily, “or, Wulf, you will disturb the bandages, and he has had enough of blood-letting.”

Then before he could answer, which he seemed minded to do, there came the sound of a slow step, and swinging the curtain aside, a tall and noble-looking knight entered the little place.  The man was old, but looked older than he was, for sorrow and sickness had wasted him.  His snow-white hair hung upon his shoulders, his face was pale, and his features were pinched but finely-chiselled, and notwithstanding the difference of their years, wonderfully like to those of the daughter Rosamund.  For this was her father, the famous lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy.

Rosamund turned and bent the knee to him with a strange and Eastern grace, while Wulf bowed his head, and Godwin, since his neck was too stiff to stir, held up his hand in greeting.  The old man looked at him, and there was pride in his eye.

“So you will live after all, my nephew,” he said, “and for that I thank the giver of life and death, since by God, you are a gallant man—­a worthy child of the bloods of the Norman D’Arcy and of Uluin the Saxon.  Yes, one of the best of them.”

“Speak not so, my uncle,” said Godwin; “or at least, here is a worthier,”—­and he patted the hand of Wulf with his lean fingers.  “It was Wulf who bore me through.  Oh, I remember as much as that—­how he lifted me onto the black horse and bade me to cling fast to mane and pommel.  Ay, and I remember the charge, and his cry of ‘Contre D’Arcy, contre Mort!’ and the flashing of swords about us, and after that—­nothing.”