Poor Osric! his whole character and disposition may be plainly enough traced in the conversation given above. The reader must not condemn the grandfather, old Sexwulf, for his reticence concerning the mystery of Osric's birth. When Wulfnoth of Compton brought the babe to his door, it was with strict injunctions not to disclose the secret till he gave permission. The old grandfather did not understand the reasons why so much mystery was made of the matter, but he felt bound to obey the prohibition.
Hence all that Osric knew was that he was the last survivor of his family, and that all besides him had perished in the wars, save a father of whom little was known, except that he manifested no interest whatsoever in his son.
Perhaps the reader can already solve the riddle; we have given hints enough. Only he must remember that neither Brian nor Sexwulf had his advantages.
The service of the village church sounded sweetly in the ears of Osric that day. He was affected by the associations which cling about the churches where we once knelt by a father or mother's side; and Osric felt like a child again as he knelt by his grandfather—it might be for the last time, for the possibility of sudden death on the battle-field, of entering a deadly fray never to emerge alive, of succumbing beneath the sword or lance of some stronger or more fortunate adversary, was ever present to the mind; yet Osric did not fear death on the battle-field. There was, and is, an unaccountable glamour about it: men who would not enter a "pest-house" for the world, would volunteer for a "forlorn hope."
But it is quite certain that on that day all the religious impulses Osric had ever felt, were revived, and that he vowed again and again to be a true knight, sans peur et sans reproche, fearing nought but God, and afraid only of sin and shame, as the vow of chivalry imported, if knight he was ever allowed to become.
Ite missa est[18]—it was over, and they left the rustic church. Outside the neighbours clustered and chatted as they do nowadays. They congratulated Sexwulf on his handsome grandson, and flattered the boy as they commented on his changed appearance, but there always seemed something they left unsaid.
Neither was their talk cheerful; it turned chiefly upon wars and rumours of wars. They had been spared, but there were dismal tales of the country around—of murder and arson, of fire and sword, of worse scenes yet behind, and doom to come.
They hoped to gather in that harvest, whether another would be theirs to reap was very doubtful. And so at last they separated, and through some golden fields of corn, for it was nearly harvest time, Sexwulf and his grandson wended their way to their forest home. It was a day long remembered, for it was the very last of a long series of peaceful Sundays in the forest. Osric felt unusually happy that afternoon, as he returned home with his grandfather, full of the strength of new resolutions with which we are told the way to a place, unmentionable to ears polite, is paved; and his manner to his grandfather was so sweet and affectionate, that the dear old man was delighted with his boy.
The evening was spent at home, for there was no Vesper service at the little chapel—amidst the declining shadows of the trees, the solemn silence of the forest, the sweet murmuring of the brook. The old man slept in the shade, seated upon a mossy bank. Osric slept too, with his head pillowed upon his grandfather's lap; while in wakeful moments the aged hands played with his graceful locks. Old Judith span in the doorway and watched the lad.
"He is as bonny as he is brave, and as brave as he is bonny, the dear lad," she said.