FOUND IN THE REPOSITORIES OF THE ABBOTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES.


Swept from his saddle by a low branch, Count Robert lay stunned upon
the ground. The hunting-party swept on, the riderless steed galloping
wildly among them. No man turned back; not one loved the Count better
than his sport.

There came to the spot a man in a woodman's garb, yet of a knightly
and noble aspect. He bent over the fallen man, and bathed his temples,
turning back the heavy, clustering locks. The Count, opening his eyes,
gazed on him at first without surprise; he thought himself at home,
however he came there, so familiar was the face.

Then did the woodman embrace him with tears, crying, "My brother, O my
brother! it is I! it is Richard!"

"Thou in England!" cried the Count. "Art thou mad?" And he frowned
gloomily.

"Fear not for me," replied the exile, tenderly raising the Count from
the ground.

A narrow path wound through the wood to a ruined hermitage. The outlaw
here prepared a bed of leaves for the Count, laid him softly thereon,
and went to seek some refreshment. His loved brother might revive, and
yet smile kindly on the playmate of his youth, though under a ban.

When Richard returned, there followed him like a dog a horse of the