"Ay, Raymond. I fear thou wilt curse the day thou camest into the world, for to my sorrow I must tell thee—the brother of that lady's father was the man I slew!"
For a moment the squire was incapable of speech, then, recovering himself with an effort, he exclaimed, "Nay, father, I blame you not. It is rather the fate of circumstances and my own foolish pride that made me look so high. I cannot for one moment continue my suit for the hand of the Lady Audrey, neither can I ever hope to wear the spurs of knighthood; but I am still thy son."
"And wouldst thou know thy true name?"
"Not unless it please thee, father; 'Raymond Buckland' hath served me well these four-and-twenty years; but," he added with pardonable curiosity, "if I may I would desire to know."
"Dost call to mind Sir Edmund Revyngton?"
"Indifferently so; I wot he is a knight of Devon."
"He is also my brother, and, being without issue, his heir would be, but for the bar of outlawry, Redward Revyngton, now known to all men as Redward Buckland."
It was a long story, that narrative of life marred by an act committed in a moment of anger, but breathlessly Raymond listened till the master-bowman had finished.
"And if so be thou comest scatheless from the wars," he added, "the abbot of Netley will deliver into thy hands certain documents pertaining to thy welfare, and, should Heaven grant that this decree of outlawry be rescinded (though I shall never live to see the day), I pray that thou wilt ever acquit thyself as an honourable gentleman of Devon."
Slowly father and son returned towards the camp, and as they passed between the long lines of tents, Redward paused before a lodging in front of which was a shield displaying a mailed hand argent on a field azure.