“Slain in battle!” exclaimed the palmer, with a fierceness half concealed. “Who bore the message:—who told you that you were orphans?”
“A friar had shrived the soul of one of his retainers, who confessed that he had seen his noble master die, and a Welsh knight confirmed it.”
The holy men paused, and struck his hand violently against his breast.
“But your mother—how did she receive the news of your father’s death?”
“Oh, father, do not ask me to think of her sorrows. For a year she walked not forth with us, as before, to speak of Palestine and him. We were clasped to her bosom: still we dreaded the embrace, for there was a violent heaving of her heart, which made us shudder, and the black, black robes of her widowhood, were close upon our cheeks: we could not endure her kisses, for, as she raised us to her lips, tears fell upon our faces.”
The reverend palmer put his arms kindly around them.
“Oh,” cried the elder boy, “you pity my mother and us. Heaven bless your affectionate heart! I was not old enough, when he departed, to tell him how brave I would be, and perhaps he died in doubts, lest I might disgrace his name.”
“Brave boy;” and as the palmer spoke, he took the youth’s hand and shook it, as a warrior would the hand of his brother, “you will not disgrace his name. But let us sit down beneath this tree, for I am wearied with a long pilgrimage.”
He had before walked slowly, and now proposed to be seated, as if he wished to delay the time. And who does not pause, when, after a long absence, he returns home, and fortify his bosom to know the worst. We dare not open the door, as if that would disclose too wide a scene to our view; but we gaze in at the small lattice, just to recognize one object, and know that all is not lost. We refuse the light of day to shew us home, and eve is the time of our welcome to all its hallowed joys—if these still survive.