"I remember it too well. The churl would not pay me tribute."
"Tribute to whom tribute is due," muttered the aged one; then, aloud, "One child escaped the flames, in which my daughter and her other poor children perished. A few days afterwards the father, who had escaped, brought me this child and bade me rear it, in ignorance of the fate of kith and kin, while he entered upon the life of a hunted but destroying wolf, slaying Normans."
"And he said the boy was his own?"
"And why should he not be? He has my poor daughter's features in some measure, I have thought."
"She must have been lovely, then," thought Brian, but only said—
"Tormentor, throw aside thy implements; they are for cowards. Old man, ere thou ascend the stairs, know that thy life depends upon thy grandson. Canst thou spare him to me?"
"Have I any choice?"
"Nay. But wilt thou bid him enter my service, and perchance win his spurs?"
"Not for worlds."