“And hast thou any notion where the young Hlaford may be, father?” asked he, suddenly.
“Certes, boy, I wot not where he is,” replied Styr; “but I deem it most like that, if he has fallen into Hugh de Moreville’s hands, he has been carried either to Chas-Chateil, or to Mount Moreville on the Scottish marches.” “If,” added the Saxon, “there was any means of gaining access to De Moreville’s castle, and learning whether such a prisoner is there, all might be amended.”
Wolf cast his eyes on the ground, reflected long and earnestly, and then looked up with the exultation of one who has solved a difficult problem.
“Father,” said he, “I have it; leave the business to me. It is, I own, parlous ugly; yet, with the blessing of St. Edward, who is known to favour the Icinglas and such as serve them, I will hazard limb and life in the adventure.”
Styr the Saxon winced, and his paternal affection got the better of his hereditary devotion, as before his mind’s eye rose a vision of his son--so young, so comely, and so slight of frame--at the mercy of Hugh de Moreville, and in the clutches of De Moreville’s myrmidons.
“Wolf, boy,” said he, tenderly, “this may not be. Hugh de Moreville is a man whom it is not chancy to meddle with.”
“Hout, father!” exclaimed Wolf, who was waxing very valiant under the influence of his imagination. “What more dangerous is the Lord Hugh than any other lord? Perchance, after all, his bark is worse than his bite.”
“But thou art young, Wolf, being as yet a boy, with years to grow; thy form is too slight and thy strength all-insufficient to fight with so stormy a sea as that on which thou wouldst venture.”
“Fear not for me, father,” interrupted Wolf, half offended; “nor deem that because I am not so big of body as Forest Will, my peril will, therefore, be the greater. Bulk is not craft, or the fox would be less cunning than the ass; nor is size courage, or the sheep would not run before the dog; nor is stature swiftness, otherwise a cow could out-race a hare. Anyhow, I will go, and time will try whether I have mettle enough in me or not, as frost tries the strange plants in the physic garden of the monks of St. Alban’s. But speak on, father, that I may be instructed by thy words, for does not the proverb tell us that as the old cock crows the young one learns?”