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And also that it was fixed in his poor diseased brain that the apparition would not rest until the crusade, vowed by the Sieur de Fievrault, but cut short by his fall, should be made by proxy, and that the proxy must be one sans peur et sans reproche.
"Nay," said the old withered retainer of the house of Fievrault; "bethink thee, my lord, of what befell thy own father." "And for that very reason his son would fain avenge him," said Hubert flippantly, "and flout the ghosts, if such things there be. And if men Frenchmen or the like see fit to attire themselves in masquerade, no coward fear will blunt the edge of our swords."
It was brought, and to his joy Hubert recognised the sword of the Sieur de Fievrault, which he had broken on a Moslem's skull in the desperate fight wherein he was taken prisoner. With what joy did he receive it! He could now discharge his father's delegated duty. "Rest here awhile, and when thy strength is fully restored, start with better omens on thy journey to Jerusalem."
There was no vacant hook now, for at the end of the row hung the sword of the ill-fated Sieur de Fievrault, the last of his grim race. When it was over the wine produced its usual exhilarating effect. Song and romaunt were sung until the shadows began to turn towards the east and the hues of approaching evening to suffuse the shades of the adjacent wilderness.
In the dead hour of the night Hubert alone awoke, with the consciousness that someone was gazing upon him. He looked up. There was the figure which had so often tormented his poor father, the slain Frenchman, the last Sieur de Fievrault, pale and gory, his hand on the wound in his side. "Speak, dread phantom! What dost thou want with me? I go to do thy bidding, to fulfil thy vow." "Thank God!
He took them to the half-dismantled dining hall, where hung the portraits of the old lords of Fievrault rudely limned, and conspicuous amongst them those of the founder of the house, and his loathly lady; the painter had not flattered them.
The sceptic will see in the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodily form, but even if only the creature of the imagination, it was equally real to the sufferer. One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatal day when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had that day passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record his adversary's dying day.
In one they shuddered to behold a human skeleton, from which the rats had long since eaten the flesh, chained by steel manacles around its wrists and ankles to the wall, and hence still retaining its upright position: and in each of these dark chambers they found sufficient evidence of the fell character of the house of Fievrault.
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