had risen, and stood tall and dark over him, and, looking up, he
recognized the pale, grave countenance of Martin, Abbot of Jumieges,
his father's chief friend and councillor.

"Richard of Normandy, what sayest thou?" said he, sternly. "Yes,
hang thy head, and reply not, rather than repeat those words. Dost
thou come here to disturb the peace of the dead with clamours for
vengeance? Dost thou vow strife and anger on that sword which was
never drawn, save in the cause of the poor and distressed? Wouldst
thou rob Him, to whose service thy life has been pledged, and devote
thyself to that of His foe? Is this what thou hast learnt from thy
blessed father?"

Richard made no answer, but he covered his face with his hands, to
hide the tears which were fast streaming.

"Lord Abbot, Lord Abbot, this passes!" exclaimed Bernard the Dane.
"Our young Lord is no monk, and we will not see each spark of noble
and knightly spirit quenched as soon as it shows itself."

"Count of Harcourt," said Abbot Martin, "are these the words of a
savage Pagan, or of one who has been washed in yonder blessed font?
Never, while I have power, shalt thou darken the child's soul with
thy foul thirst of revenge, insult the presence of thy master with
the crime he so abhorred, nor the temple of Him who came to pardon,
with thy hatred. Well do I know, ye Barons of Normandy, that each
drop of your blood would willingly be given, could it bring back our
departed Duke, or guard his orphan child; but, if ye have loved the
father, do his bidding--lay aside that accursed spirit of hatred and
vengeance; if ye love the child, seek not to injure his soul more