house an old grey man, who was lord of that estate, his only daughter,
and a young man, a kind of distant cousin of the house, whom the lord had
brought up from a boy, as he was the orphan of a kinsman who had fallen
in combat in his quarrel. Now, as the young knight and the young lady
were both beautiful and brave, and loved beauty and good things ardently,
it was natural enough that they should discover as they grew up that they
were in love with one another; and afterwards, as they went on loving one
another, it was, alas! not unnatural that they should sometimes have half-
quarrels, very few and far between indeed, and slight to lookers-on, even
while they lasted, but nevertheless intensely bitter and unhappy to the
principal parties thereto. I suppose their love then, whatever it has
grown to since, was not so all-absorbing as to merge all differences of
opinion and feeling, for again there were such differences then. So,
upon a time it happened, just when a great war had arisen, and Lawrence
(for that was the knight's name) was sitting, and thinking of war, and
his departure from home; sitting there in a very grave, almost a stern
mood, that Ella, his betrothed, came in, gay and sprightly, in a humour
that Lawrence often enough could little understand, and this time liked
less than ever, yet the bare sight of her made him yearn for her full
heart, which he was not to have yet; so he caught her by the hand, and
tried to draw her down to him, but she let her hand lie loose in his, and
did not answer the pressure in which his heart flowed to hers; then he
arose and stood before her, face to face, but she drew back a little, yet
he kissed her on the mouth and said, though a rising in his throat almost
choked his voice, 'Ella, are you sorry I am going?' 'Yea,' she said,
'and nay, for you will shout my name among the sword flashes, and you
will fight for me.' 'Yes,' he said, 'for love and duty, dearest.' 'For
duty? ah! I think, Lawrence, if it were not for me, you would stay at
home and watch the clouds, or sit under the linden trees singing dismal
love ditties of your own making, dear knight: truly, if you turn out a