'My sons were young. Land and governance belong by right to young men.'
Sir Richard was talking to himself. 'It would have broken their hearts
if we had taken back our Manors. They made us great welcome, but we
could see--Hugh and I could see--that our day was done. I was a cripple
and he a one-armed man. No!' He shook his head. 'And therefore'--he
raised his voice--'we rode back to Pevensey.'

'I'm sorry,' said Una, for the knight seemed very sorrowful.

'Little maid, it all passed long ago. They were young; we were old. We
let them rule the Manors. "Aha!" cried De Aquila from his shot-window,
when we dismounted. "Back again to earth, old foxes?" but when we were
in his chamber above the Hall he puts his arms about us and says,
"Welcome, ghosts! Welcome, poor ghosts!" ... Thus it fell out that we
were rich beyond belief, and lonely. And lonely!'

'What did you do?' said Dan.

'We watched for Robert of Normandy,' said the knight. 'De Aquila was
like Witta. He suffered no idleness. In fair weather we would ride along
between Bexlei on the one side, to Cuckmere on the other--sometimes with
hawk, sometimes with hound (there are stout hares both on the Marsh and
the Downland), but always with an eye to the sea, for fear of fleets
from Normandy. In foul weather he would walk on the top of his tower,
frowning against the rain--peering here and pointing there. It always
vexed him to think how Witta's ship had come and gone without his
knowledge. When the wind ceased and ships anchored, to the wharf's edge
he would go and, leaning on his sword among the stinking fish, would
call to the mariners for their news from France. His other eye he kept
landward for word of Henry's war against the Barons.