Their faces, too, were of the same dark hue.
The one wore the dress of a hermit, the other was a boy of some sixteen years.
Brian recognised his younger son in the latter, rather by instinct and by knowledge of the circumstances than otherwise.
"It is my Richard. But where is Evroult?"
"Here," said a voice,—"read."
Upon the wall was a rude inscription, scratched thereon by Meinhold, his last labour of love—
EVROULT IN PACE.
Little as he possessed the power of reading, Brian recognised his son's name, and understood all. The strong man fell before that altar, and for the first time in many years recognised the Hand which had stricken him.
They dragged him away, as they felt that the atmosphere was dangerous to them all—as indeed it was.
"Leave them where they are—better tomb could they not have; only wall up the entrance."