But, silent and sad, the master-bowman and his son went on their way, for Raymond knew instinctively that there was a great burden on his father's mind. At length they reached the dark shadows of the wood, and here Redward halted.
"Raymond, my beloved son," he exclaimed in a voice broken with emotion, "'tis hard that I should have to tell thee what I am about to utter, but, before Heaven, I must do it, both for mine own peace of mind and for thine own. Two score and three years ago this very day I slew a man. The quarrel was of his own seeking, 'tis true, but, nevertheless, the law was set against me, and I was made outlaw!"
The master-bowman paused to note the effect of this announcement, but, beyond a tightening of his lips, Raymond betrayed no sign of dismay at this astounding confession.
"Then I fled from the country, and assumed a name to which I have no right," resumed Redward. "In this I did thee a great injustice, for the ban falls on the outlaw's children equally with himself; and on this account I ought never to have taken a wife or to have had a son."
"I care not for myself, father. But what if, even now, thou art recognised?"
"It matters not, my son. A secret kept for over two score years may well remain a secret; but I have a misgiving that I shall never see the sun set to-morrow."
"Father!"
"Nay, Raymond, 'tis but a small matter. I cannot live much longer, and to fall in battle is a worthy end. But the worst is to be told. Thou wouldst marry the Lady Audrey!"
The young squire shuddered at the altered prospect.
"Alack a day!" he groaned.