"Maybe he shall find his death there!" he said in a low mournful voice to Mr. Robesart.
"Be it so, my son," answered the priest, though his own tones were not without sorrow. "Let him only find God's work; and then he shall find also God's hire unto His servants. He gives not grudgingly, Lawrence Madison."
The armies met at Kenles, on the 20th of July 1398. When they were yet at a short distance, the Earl of March suddenly sprang from his horse, and bade Lawrence dismount also.
"Quick, and aid me!" said he, in his usual impulsive manner. "I will don the Irish habit, and meet them thus arrayed. They will list me if I come to them in their own habit, and speaking their own tongue. Is not the blood of their ancient kings mine own? Lolly"—the old childish epithet came back to his lips in this moment of haste and excitement—"wherefore standest gazing thus moonstruck? Make haste and help me."
"My Lord, I am sore afeared lest they hurt you."
"They hurt me! Am I not one of them by blood? Have I not learned to be one of them in language? Let me but don their habit, and I am of them in all things. Quick! Cast thy fears and fantasies to the winds! This is no time for them."
While Roger spoke, he was hastily throwing aside his English dress, and arraying himself in the Irish national costume—the tunic and braccæ which dated from Roman days, the loose hood, the plaid, the bare foot in the stirrup, and the spear in the hand. Thus accoutred, and commanding his men to stand still until after the parley, he dashed up the slope to meet the Irish leaders.
For an instant Roger's handsome face and lithe figure were seen at the summit of the knoll, as he cried in Irish to the advancing host.
"God speed you, my brethren! What are your demands?"
There was a moment's pause for consultation among the Irish leaders. Then two appeared to separate from the rest, and to come forth towards Roger.