"I will, assuredly, my son," said the Chaplain, "but it is little
that a poor Priest like me can do. I would that grant to the
Clarenhams were repealed."

"That were soon done," said Reginald, "but it is no time for a
loyal vassal to complain of grievances when his liege lord has
summoned him to the field. That were to make the King's need
be his law. No! no! Watch over her, good father, she is weak
and tender. Look up, sweet heart, give me one cheerful wish to
speed me on my journey. No? She has swooned. Eleanor! my wife--"

"Begone, begone, my son," said Father Cyril, "it will be the better
for her."

"It may be," said Reginald, "yet to leave her thus-- Here, nurse,
support her, tend her well. Give her my tenderest greetings.
Arthur, be duteous to her; talk to her of our return; farewell,
my boy, and blessings on you. Eustace, mount."

Sir Reginald, sighing heavily, swung himself into the saddle;
Eustace waited a moment longer. "Good Father, this was to have
been in poor Eleanor's charge. It is the token, you know for
whom."

"It shall reach her, my son."

"You will send me a letter whenever you can?"

"Truly, I will; and I would have you read and write, especially in
Latin, when you have the chance--good gifts should not be buried.