Hubert was silent.
“When thou art struck—”
“No one ever struck me without getting it back, at least no boy of my own age,” interrupted Hubert.
“And He said, ‘When thou art smitten on one cheek, turn the other to the smiter.’”
“But, my father, must we all be like that? I am sure I couldn’t be that sort of Christian; even the good earl Simon is not, nor Martin either. Perhaps the chaplain is—do you think so?”
“Who is Martin?”
“The best boy I know, but I have seen him fight.”
“Well, and thou may’st fight nay, must, as the world goes, in a good cause, and there is a sword which thou must bear unsullied through the conflict. But if thou avengest thine own private wrongs, as I did, or bearest rancour against thy personal foes, never wilt thou deliver me.”
“Deliver thee?”
“Yes, my child. I am under a curse, because on the very day of the great sacrifice on the Cross, on a Friday, I slew a man who had insulted me. He died unhouselled, unanointed, unannealed, and his ghost ever haunts my midnight hour.”