"I could desire nothing better, father."
"On that condition I absolve thee;" and the customary formula was pronounced.
A hard "condition" indeed! a meet penance! Osric might still gratify his taste for fighting, without sin.
They left the church—Osric as happy as he could be. A great weight was lifted off his mind. It was only in such an age that a youth, loving war, might still enjoy his propensity as a religious penance. Similia similibus curantur, says the old proverb.
The two walked in the cloisters.
"My father—for thou knowest thy son now—I am wholly in thy hands. Hadst thou bidden me, I had joined the outlaws, and fought for my country. Now thou must direct me."
"Were there even a chance of successful resistance, my son, I would bid thee stay and fight the Lord's battle here; but it is hopeless. What can such desultory warfare do? No, our true hope lies now in the son of the Empress—the descendant of our old English kings, for such he is by his mother's side—Henry Plantagenet. He will bridle these robbers, and destroy their dens of tyranny."
"But Brian is fighting on that side."
"And when the victory is gained, as it will be, it will cut short such license as the Lord of Wallingford now exercises,—destroy these robber castles, the main of them, put those that remain under proper control, drive these 'free lances' out of England, and restore the reign of peace."
"May I not then assist the coming of that day?"