“But, my father, I trust thy courage and valour have descended to me also. They do not call me girlish at Kenilworth.”
“Such as I have to bequeath is, I trust, thine. Thy mother came of a race more addicted to lute and harp than sword or spear. It was the worse for them in their dire need, when the stern father of him who shelters thee harried their land with fire and sword.
“But we waste time. Sit down and let the eyes of the father, weary of the world, gaze upon the boy in whom he lives again.”
For a few moments there was silence, during which Roger seemed struggling to overcome an emotion which overpowered him.
“I was thinking of the sunny land of Provence, and was there again with one dearly loved, who was only spared to me a few short months. She died in giving thee birth, my Hubert; had she lived, I had not become the wreck I am.
“So thou desirest to go forth into the world, my son?”
“As thou didst also, my father.”
“But I trust under other auspices. Tell me not of my giddy youth. Dearly did I pay the price of youthful folly and unseemly strife. Thou, too, my boy, must buy experience; God grant more cheaply than I bought mine.”
There he shuddered.
“My boy, hast thou ever wished to be a warrior of the Cross—a crusader?”