When he was completely restored, he refrained obstinately from the chase.
His father, wishing to cheer him, made him a present of a great Saracen sword.
It was at the top of a pillar, in a trophy. To reach it a ladder was required. Julian climbed it. The heavy sword slipped through his fingers, and grazed the good lord so closely, as it fell, that his gown was cut by it; Julian thought he had killed his father, and fainted.
Thenceforth he had a dread of weapons. The sight of a naked blade made him blench. This weakness caused great distress to his family.
At length the old monk commanded him in the name of God and for the honour of his ancestors to resume the exercises of a gentleman.
The squires amused themselves every day with throwing the javelin. In this Julian very soon excelled. He sent his into bottle-mouths, broke the teeth of the weather-vanes, hit the nails-studs of the doors at a hundred paces.
One summer evening, at the hour when the mist renders things indistinct, he was under the trellis in the garden and saw down at the end two white wings that fluttered at the height of the fence. He never doubted but it was a stork; and he darted his javelin.
A piercing cry resounded.
It was his mother, whose head-dress with its long lappets remained pinned to the wall.
Julian fled from the castle, and was never seen there again.