“Would that I had been there to help in that fight,” said Sir Andrew D’Arcy, tossing his white hair.  “Oh, my children, it is hard to be sick and old.  A log am I—­naught but a rotting log.  Still, had I only known—­”

“Father, father,” said Rosamund, casting her white arm about his neck.  “You should not speak thus.  You have done your share.”

“Yes, my share; but I should like to do more.  Oh, St. Andrew, ask it for me that I may die with sword aloft and my grandsire’s cry upon my lips.  Yes, yes; thus, not like a worn-out war-horse in his stall.  There, pardon me; but in truth, my children, I am jealous of you.  Why, when I found you lying in each other’s arms I could have wept for rage to think that such a fray had been within a league of my own doors and I not in it.”

“I know nothing of all that story,” said Godwin.

“No, in truth, how can you, who have been senseless this month or more?  But Rosamund knows, and she shall tell it you.  Speak on, Rosamund.  Lay you back, Godwin, and listen.”

“The tale is yours, my cousins, and not mine,” said Rosamund.  “You bade me take the water, and into it I spurred the grey horse, and we sank deep, so that the waves closed above my head.  Then up we came, I floating from the saddle, but I regained it, and the horse answered to my voice and bridle, and swam out for the further shore.  On it swam, somewhat slantwise with the tide, so that by turning my head I could see all that passed upon the mole.  I saw them come at you, and men fall before your swords; I saw you charge them, and run back again.  Lastly, after what seemed a very long while, when I was far away, I saw Wulf lift Godwin into the saddle—­I knew it must be Godwin, because he set him on the black horse—­and the pair of you galloped down the quay and vanished.

“By then I was near the home shore, and the grey grew very weary and sank deep in the water.  But I cheered it on with my voice, and although twice its head went beneath the waves, in the end it found a footing, though a soft one.  After resting awhile, it plunged forward with short rushes through the mud, and so at length came safe to land, where it stood shaking with fear and weariness.  So soon as the horse got its breath again, I pressed on, for I saw them loosing the boat, and came home here as the dark closed in, to meet your uncle watching for me at the gate.  Now, father, do you take up the tale.”

“There is little more to tell,” said Sir Andrew.  “You will remember, nephews, that I was against this ride of Rosamund’s to seek flowers, or I know not what, at St. Peter’s shrine, nine miles away, but as the maid had set her heart on it, and there are but few pleasures here, why, I let her go with the pair of you for escort.  You will mind also that you were starting without your mail, and how foolish you thought me when I called you back and made you gird it on.  Well, my patron saint—­or yours—­put it into my