The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had been
removed. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; but
the old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he had
purchased this remission with the banishment of his dear son, as if
he had given "the first born of his body for the sin of his soul."

And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit--the
half-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it the
thought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself on
the morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious,
thoughtless, but loving Hubert.

And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It was
Prior Foville--he who built the two great western towers of the
church.

"Stay without," whispered the prior to someone by his side; "joy
sometimes kills."

The old monk gazed upon the prior with wonder, his face had so
strange an expression. It was like the face of one who has a secret
to tell and can hardly keep it in.

"What is it, my father? Hast thou brought joy or sorrow with thee?"

"Joy, I trust. We have reason to think thy gallant son is not
dead."

The father trembled. He could hardly stand.