Etienne was to him as the apple of his eye; and little wonder--the
qualities which, we doubt not, nay, we trust, disfigure that
amiable youth in the minds of our gentle readers--his pride, his
carelessness for the bodily or mental sufferings of others--all
these things were nought to the Norman noble, he loved to see his
son stark and fierce, and smiled as he heard of deeds which better
men would have sternly refused to condone.
He almost longed for war--for some rebellion on the part of the
English--that Etienne might flesh his sword and win his spurs, and,
as we see, that wish, at least, was gratified.
But it was this very love for his own son which had made the old
baron so unloving a stepfather to Wilfred, in whom he could only
see the rival of his boy, and both mother and son were obstacles to
be removed--the old sinner did not sin for himself, it must be
confessed.
Half an hour passed. Sir Eustace, the last who arrived that night,
came in, and the baron, to the great relief of the cooks, descended
to the hall.
Still he was far too proud and jealous of his dignity to show his
anxiety in voice or mien. He descended calmly to the banquet, the
chaplain blessed the food, and the tired and hungry nobles fell to
at the high table, while their retainers feasted below.
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