tables were still covered with cloths, trenchers, knives, cups, and
the remains of the funeral baked meats, and there were overthrown
tankards and stains of wine on the cloth, as though, whatever else
were lacking, the Talbot retainers had not missed their revel.

One of the dishevelled rough-looking maidens began some hurried
muttering about being so distraught, and not looking for madam so
early, but Susan could not listen to her, and merely putting the babe
into her arms, came with her husband up the stairs, leaving little
Humfrey with Nathanael.

Richard knocked at the bedroom door, and, receiving no answer, opened
it. There in the tapestry-hung chamber was the huge old bedstead
with its solid posts. In it lay something motionless, but the first
thing the husband and wife saw was the bent head which was lifted up
by the burly but broken figure in the chair beside it.

The two knotted old hands clasped the arms of the chair, and the
squire prepared to rise, his lip trembling under his white beard, and
emotion working in his dejected features. They were beforehand with
him. Ere he could rise both were on their knees before him, while
Richard in a broken voice cried, "Father, O father!"

"Thank God that thou art come, my son," said the old man, laying his
hands on his shoulders, with a gleam of joy, for as they afterwards
knew, he had sorely feared for Richard's ship in the storm that had
caused Humfrey's death. "I looked for thee, my daughter," he added,
stretching out one hand to Susan, who kissed it. "Now it may go
better with her! Speak to thy mother, Richard, she may know thy
voice."