"And wouldst thou be a soldier too, my boy? the paths of glory
often lead to the grave; thou art safer far as an acolyte here;
thou wilt perhaps be prior some day."

"I covet not safety, my lord. If my father loved thee, and thou
didst love him, take me to thy castle and let me be thy page. There
are no chivalrous exercises here, no tilt yard, only the bell which
booms all day long; matins and lauds; prime, terce and sext;
vespers and compline; and masses between whiles."

"My son, be not irreverent."

The boy lowered his eyes at the reproof.

"Thou shalt go with me. But, my boy, blame me not if some day thou
grieve over the loss of this sweet peace."

"I love not peace--it is dull."

"How wonderful it is that the son should inherit the father's
tastes with his form," said the earl to the prior. "When this lad's
sire and I were young together he had just the same ideas, the same
restless craving for excitement, and it led him at last to a
soldier's grave. Well, what is bred in the bone will out in the
flesh.

"Hubert, thou shalt go with me to Kenilworth, but it will be a hard
and stern school for thee; there are no idlers there."

"I am not an idler, my good lord."