“Peace?  Yes; but soon there will be war again.  The monk Peter—­he whom we saw at Stangate last Sunday, and who left Syria but six months gone—­told me that it was coming fast.  Even now the Sultan Saladin, sitting at Damascus, summons his hosts from far and wide, while his priests preach battle amongst the tribes and barons of the East.  And when it comes, brother, shall we not be there to share it, as were our grandfather, our father, our uncle, and so many of our kin?  Shall we rot here in this dull land, as by our uncle’s wish we have done these many years, yes, ever since we were home from the Scottish war, and count the kine and plough the fields like peasants, while our peers are charging on the pagan, and the banners wave, and the blood runs red upon the holy sands of Palestine?”

Now it was Wulf’s turn to take fire.

“By our Lady in Heaven, and our lady here!”—­and he looked at Rosamund, who was watching the pair of them with her quiet thoughtful eyes—­“go when you will, Godwin, and I go with you, and as our birth was one birth, so, if it is decreed, let our death be one death.”  And suddenly his hand that had been playing with the sword-hilt gripped it fast, and tore the long, lean blade from its scabbard and cast it high into the air, flashing in the sunlight, to catch it as it fell again, while in a voice that caused the wild fowl to rise in thunder from the Saltings beneath, Wulf shouted the old war-cry that had rung on so many a field—­“A D’Arcy! a D’Arcy!  Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!” Then he sheathed his sword again and added in a shamed voice, “Are we children that we fight where no foe is?  Still, brother, may we find him soon!”

Godwin smiled grimly, but answered nothing; only Rosamund said: 

“So, my cousins, you would be away, perhaps to return no more, and that will part us.  But”—­and her voice broke somewhat—­“such is the woman’s lot, since men like you ever love the bare sword best of all, nor should I think well of you were it otherwise.  Yet, cousins, I know not why”—­and she shivered a little—­“it comes into my heart that Heaven often answers such prayers swiftly.  Oh, Wulf! your sword looked very red in the sunlight but now:  I say that it looked very red in the sunlight.  I am afraid—­of I know not what.  Well, we must be going, for we have nine miles to ride, and the dark is not so far away.  But first, my cousins, come with me into this shrine, and let us pray St. Peter and St. Chad to guard us on our journey home.”

“Our journey?” said Wulf anxiously.  “What is there for you to fear in a nine-mile ride along the shores of the Blackwater?”

“I said our journey home Wulf; and home is not in the hall at Steeple, but yonder,” and she pointed to the quiet, brooding sky.

“Well answered,” said Godwin, “in this ancient place, whence so many have journeyed home; all the Romans who are dead, when it was their fortress, and the Saxons who came after them, and others without count.”