He took the bow from the hands of the elder boy, and examined it long.
“It is my father’s bow,” said the youth, “and, at a long distance, he could pierce the first arrow with the second. My mother loves it. See, their names are carved upon it.”
The palmer laid it down, and leaned against the tree.
“Father, art thou weary? Alas, Haigh Hall, now cannot afford thee a shelter. Sir Osmund Neville—”
“Who is he?” said the holy palmer, starting up. His cowl fell from his face, and gave to view a calm and manly forehead, with auburn locks curling on it. It was pale, but commanding. “Who is Sir Osmund Neville?”
The boys looked with astonishment.
“Hast thou been a warrior?” asked the younger. “Thou resemblest what my mother tells us our father was; and he was a brave warrior. But, holy man, Sir Osmond is my mother’s—”
“Husband!”—exclaimed the palmer with a faint shriek. He turned aside. “Good God!—what a return! My own halls cast me forth. My wife’s pillow refuses to give rest to my wearied head! Sir William is a stranger in Haigh! Would that the report had been true. Yet now I will dare the worst.” He replaced his cowl. “Where is Sir Osmund?”
“He is now a hunting, and has confined my mother to an apartment where none can visit her. He struck me wantonly, but I shall yet repay him for my mother’s wrongs.”