CHAPTER V. MOTHER AND SON



My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
I may not be, but rest thee, rest--
The lowly shepherd's life is best.--WORDSWORTH.


The Lady Threlkeld stood in the lower storey of her castle, a sort of
rough-built hall or crypt, with a stone stair leading upward to the
real castle hall above, while this served as a place where she met
her husband's retainers and the poor around, and administered to
their wants with her own hands, assisted by the maidens of her
household.

Among the various hungry and diseased there limped in a sturdy beggar
with a wallet on his back, and a broad shady hat, as though on
pilgrimage. He was evidently a stranger among the rest, and had his
leg and foot bound up, leaning heavily on a stout staff.

'Italy pilgrim, what ails thee?' demanded the lady, as he approached
her.

'Alack, noble dame! we poor pilgrims must ever be moving on, however
much it irks foot and limb, over these northern stones,' he answered,