“Yes,” said Martin innocently; “why shouldn’t I?”
There was a pause.
“Poor child,” said the prior.
“My boy, thou should say ‘my lord,’ when addressing a titled earl.”
“I did not know, my lord. I beg pardon, my lord, if I have been rude, my lord.”
“Nay, thou hast already made up the tale of ‘my lords.’”
“You will not let them get me again, my lord?”
“They couldn’t get in here, and tomorrow, if the storm cease, I shall take thee away with me. Fear not, my poor boy. If thou hast for a while lost a mother, thou hast found a father.”
The boy sighed. Affection is not so easily transferred; and the earl quite comprehended that sigh; as a strange interest, almost unaccountable, he thought, sprang up in his manly breast for the little nestling, thrown so strangely upon his protection and care.
Brave as a lion with the proud, gentle as a lamb with the weak and defenceless, such was Simon de Montfort, an embodiment of true greatness—the union of strength with love. Both Martin and Hubert were fortunate in their new lord.