"I remember--I remember me now," said Edward, passing his pale womanly
fingers over his forehead. "The heathen rage against thee. Ah! my
poor brother, a crown is an awful head-gear. While yet time, why not
both seek some quiet convent, and put away these earthly cares?"

William smiled and shook his head. "Nay, holy Edward, from all I have
seen of convents, it is a dream to think that the monk's serge hides a
calmer breast than the warrior's mail, or the king's ermine. Now give
me thy benison, for I go."

He knelt as he spoke, and Edward bent his hands over his head, and
blessed him. Then, taking from his own neck a collar of zimmes
(jewels and uncut gems), of great price, the King threw it over the
broad throat bent before him, and rising, clapped his hands. A small
door opened, giving a glimpse of the oratory within, and a monk
appeared.

"Father, have my behests been fulfilled?--hath Hugoline, my treasurer,
dispensed the gifts that I spoke of?"

"Verily yes; vault, coffer, and garde-robe--stall and meuse.-are well
nigh drained," answered the monk, with a sour look at the Norman,
whose native avarice gleamed in his dark eyes as he heard the answer.

"Thy train go not hence empty-handed," said Edward fondly. "Thy
father's halls sheltered the exile, and the exile forgets not the sole
pleasure of a king--the power to requite. We may never meet again,
William,--age creeps over me, and who will succeed to my thorny
throne?" William longed to answer,--to tell the hope that consumed