and the prayers of the Prior John and brethren at Stangate, and
of Matthew, the village priest, have given you back to us, my
brother, my most beloved brother." And he hopped to the bedside,
and throwing his long, sinewy arms about Godwin embraced him
again and again.

"Be careful," said Rosamund drily, "or, Wulf, you will disturb
the bandages, and he has had enough of blood-letting."

Then before he could answer, which he seemed minded to do, there
came the sound of a slow step, and swinging the curtain aside, a
tall and noble-looking knight entered the little place. The man
was old, but looked older than he was, for sorrow and sickness
had wasted him. His snow-white hair hung upon his shoulders, his
face was pale, and his features were pinched but
finely-chiselled, and notwithstanding the difference of their
years, wonderfully like to those of the daughter Rosamund. For
this was her father, the famous lord, Sir Andrew D'Arcy.

Rosamund turned and bent the knee to him with a strange and
Eastern grace, while Wulf bowed his head, and Godwin, since his
neck was too stiff to stir, held up his hand in greeting. The old
man looked at him, and there was pride in his eye.

"So you will live after all, my nephew," he said, "and for that I
thank the giver of life and death, since by God, you are a
gallant man--a worthy child of the bloods of the Norman D'Arcy
and of Uluin the Saxon. Yes, one of the best of them."

"Speak not so, my uncle," said Godwin; "or at least, here is a