allowed to wear a short, beautifully ornamented dagger at his belt, but this Fru Astrida would not allow.

“You will have enough to do with steel and dagger before your life is at an end,” said she, “without seeking to begin over soon.”

“To be sure I shall,” answered Richard.  “I will be called Richard of the Sharp Axe, or the Bold Spirit, I promise you, Fru Astrida.  We are as brave in these days as the Sigurds and Ragnars you sing of!  I only wish there were serpents and dragons to slay here in Normandy.”

“Never fear but you will find even too many of them,” said Dame Astrida; “there be dragons of wrong here and everywhere, quite as venomous as any in my Sagas.”

“I fear them not,” said Richard, but half understanding her, “if you would only let me have the dagger!  But, hark! hark!” he darted to the window.  “They come, they come!  There is the banner of Normandy.”

Away ran the happy child, and never rested till he stood at the bottom of the long, steep, stone stair, leading to the embattled porch.  Thither came the Baron de Centeville, and his son, to receive their Prince.  Richard looked up at Osmond, saying, “Let me hold his stirrup,” and then sprang up and shouted for joy, as under the arched gateway there came a tall black horse, bearing the stately form of the Duke of Normandy.  His purple robe was fastened round him by a rich belt, sustaining the mighty weapon, from which he was called “William of the long Sword,” his legs and feet were cased in linked steel chain-work, his gilded spurs were on his heels, and his short brown hair was covered by his ducal cap of purple, turned up with fur, and a feather fastened in by a jewelled clasp.  His brow was grave and thoughtful, and there was something both of dignity and sorrow in his face, at the first moment of looking at it, recalling the recollection that he had early lost his young wife, the Duchess Emma, and that he was beset by many cares and toils; but the next glance generally conveyed encouragement, so full of mildness were his eyes, and so kind the expression of his lips.

And now, how bright a smile beamed upon the little Richard, who, for the first time, paid him the duty of a pupil in chivalry, by holding the stirrup while he sprung from his horse.  Next, Richard knelt to receive his blessing, which was always the custom when children met their parents.  The Duke laid his hand on his head, saying, “God of His mercy bless thee, my son,” and lifting him in his arms, held him to his breast, and let him cling to his neck and kiss him again and again, before setting him down, while Sir Eric came forward, bent his knee, kissed the hand of his Prince, and welcomed him to his Castle.

It would take too long to tell all the friendly and courteous words that were spoken, the greeting of the Duke and the noble old Lady Astrida, and the reception of the Barons who had come in the train of their Lord.  Richard was bidden to greet them, but, though he held out his hand as desired, he shrank a little to his father’s side, gazing at them in dread and shyness.

There was Count Bernard, of Harcourt, called the “Dane,” [2] with his shaggy red hair and beard, to which a touch of grey had given a strange unnatural tint, his eyes looking fierce and wild under his thick eyebrows, one of them mis-shapen in consequence of a sword cut, which had left a broad red and purple scar across both cheek and forehead.  There, too, came tall Baron Rainulf, of Ferrières, cased in a linked steel hauberk, that rang as he walked, and the men-at-arms, with helmets and shields, looking as if Sir Eric’s armour that hung in the hail had come to life and was walking about.

They sat down to Fru Astrida’s banquet, the old Lady at the Duke’s right hand, and the Count of Harcourt on his left; Osmond carved for the Duke, and Richard handed his cup and trencher.  All through the meal, the Duke and his Lords talked earnestly of the expedition on which they were bound to meet Count Arnulf of Flanders, on a little islet in the river Somme, there to come to some agreement, by which Arnulf might make restitution to Count Herluin of Montreuil, for certain wrongs which he had done him.

Some said that this would be the fittest time for requiring Arnulf to yield up some towns on his borders, to which Normandy had long laid claim, but the Duke shook his head, saying that he must seek no selfish advantage, when called to judge between others.

Richard was rather tired of their grave talk, and thought the supper very long; but at last it was over, the Grace was said, the boards which had served for tables were removed, and as it was still light, some of the guests went to see how their steeds had been bestowed, others to look at Sir Eric’s horses and hounds, and others collected together in groups.

The Duke had time to attend to his little boy, and Richard sat upon his knee and talked, told about all his pleasures, how his arrow had hit the deer to-day, how Sir Eric let him ride out to the chase on his little pony, how Osmond would take him to bathe in the cool bright river, and how he had watched the raven’s nest in the top of the old tower.

Duke William listened, and smiled, and seemed as well pleased to hear as the boy was to tell.  “And, Richard,” said he at last, “have you nought to tell me of Father Lucas, and his great book?  What, not a word?  Look up, Richard, and tell me how it goes with the learning.” [3]

“Oh, father!” said Richard, in a low voice, playing with the clasp of his father’s belt, and looking down, “I don’t like those crabbed letters on the old yellow parchment.”

“But you try to learn them, I hope!” said the Duke.

“Yes, father, I do, but they are very hard, and the words are so long, and Father Lucas will always come when the sun is so bright, and the wood so green, that I know not how to bear to be kept poring over those black hooks and strokes.”

“Poor little fellow,” said Duke William, smiling and Richard, rather encouraged, went on more boldly.  “You do not know this reading, noble father?”

“To my sorrow, no,” said the Duke.

“And Sir Eric cannot read, nor Osmond, nor any one, and why must I read, and cramp my fingers with writing, just as if I was a clerk, instead of a young Duke?”  Richard looked up in his father’s face, and then hung his head, as if half-ashamed of questioning his will, but the Duke answered him without displeasure.

“It is hard, no doubt, my boy, to you now, but it will be the better for you in the end.  I would give much to be able myself to read those holy books which I must now only hear read to me by a clerk, but since I have had the wish, I have had no time to learn as you have now.”

“But Knights and Nobles never learn,” said Richard.

“And do you think it a reason they never should?  But you are wrong, my boy, for the Kings of France and England, the Counts of Anjou, of Provence, and Paris, yes, even King Hako of Norway, [4] can all read.”

“I tell you, Richard, when the treaty was drawn up for restoring this King Louis to his throne, I was ashamed to find myself one of the few crown vassals who could not write his name thereto.”

“But none is so wise or so good as you, father,” said Richard, proudly.  “Sir Eric often says so.”

“Sir Eric loves his Duke too well to see his faults,” said Duke William; “but far better and wiser might I have