The old man gazed wildly upon him, then threw his arms around his recovered boy, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured:
“Father I thank Thee, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found.”
Chapter [25]: The Battle Of Lewes.
The barons, on their side, prepared with sober earnestness for the struggle. They were not fighting for personal aggrandisement, but, as an old writer says, “they had in all things one faith and one will—love of God and their neighbour.” So unanimous were they in their brotherly love, that they did not fear to die for their country.
It was the dead of night, and a horseman rode towards the village of Fletching. He was armed cap-a-pie, like one who might have to force his way against odds. His armour was dark, and he bore but one cognisance on his shield, the Cross. He was quite alone, but he knew that farther along he should find a sleeping host. The stars shone brightly above him, the country lay buried in sleep, scarcely a light twinkled throughout the expanse.
The sound of a deep bell tolling the hour of midnight reached him. It was from the priory which he had left an hour or more previously.
“Ere that hour strike again, England’s fate will have been decided,” he said, as if to himself, “and perhaps my account with God and man summed up before His bar. Well, I have a good cause, and a clear conscience, and I can leave it in God’s hands.”
And soon from the crest of a low hill he looked down upon the camp of the barons. There were many lights, and the murmur of voices arose.
Just then came the stern challenge.
“Who goes there?”