Why, at the thought of it even, in that solemn place and hour of dedication, his spirit reeled, for then and there for the first time it was borne in upon him that he loved this woman more than all the world beside—­more than his life, more, perhaps, than his soul.  He loved her with all his pure young heart—­so much that it would be a joy to him to die for her, not only in the heat of battle, as lately had almost chanced on the Death Creek quay, but in cold blood, of set purpose, if there came need.  He loved her with body and with spirit, and, after God, here to her he consecrated his body and his spirit.  But what value would she put upon the gift?  What if some other man—?

By his side, his elbows resting on the altar rails, his eyes fixed upon the beaming armour that he would wear in battle, knelt Wulf, his brother—­a mighty man, a knight of knights, fearless, noble, open-hearted; such a one as any woman might well love.  And he also loved Rosamund.  Of this Godwin was sure.  And, oh! did not Rosamund love Wulf?  Bitter jealousy seized upon his vitals.  Yes; even then and there, black envy got hold of Godwin, and rent him so sore that, cold as was the place, the sweat poured from his brow and body.

Should he abandon hope?  Should he fly the battle for fear that he might be defeated?  Nay; he would fight on in all honesty and honour, and if he were overcome, would meet his fate as a brave knight should—­without bitterness, but without shame.  Let destiny direct the matter.  It was in the hands of destiny, and stretching out his arm, he threw it around the neck of his brother, who knelt beside him, and let it rest there, until the head of the weary Wulf sank sleepily upon his shoulder, like the head of an infant upon its mother’s breast.

“Oh Jesu,” Godwin moaned in his poor heart, “give me strength to fight against this sinful passion that would lead me to hate the brother whom I love.  Oh Jesu, give me strength to bear it if he should be preferred before me.  Make me a perfect knight—­strong to suffer and endure, and, if need be, to rejoice even in the joy of my supplanter.”

At length the grey dawn broke, and the sunlight, passing through the eastern window, like a golden spear, pierced the dusk of the long church, which was built to the shape of a cross, so that only its transepts remained in shadow.  Then came a sound of chanting, and at the western door entered the Prior, wearing all his robes, attended by the monks and acolytes, who swung censers.  In the centre of the nave he halted and passed to the confessional, calling on Godwin to follow.  So he went and knelt before the holy man, and there poured out all his heart.  He confessed his sins.  They were but few.  He told him of the vision of his sickness, on which the Prior pondered long; of his deep love, his hopes, his fears, and his desire to be a warrior who once, as a lad, had wished to be a monk, not that he might shed blood, but to fight for the Cross of Christ against the Paynim, ending with a cry of—­