I was but thirteen and of a spirit that had been cowed by her, and was held under her thrall.
"I...

I am sorry, Falcone," I faltered, and there were tears in my eyes.
I shrugged again--shrugged in token of my despair and grief and impotence--and I moved down the long room towards the door where my mother waited.
I did not dare to bestow another look upon that poor broken old warrior, that faithful, lifelong servant, turned thus cruelly upon the world by a woman whom bigotry had sapped of all human feelings and a boy who was a coward masquerading under a great name.
I heard his gasping sob, and the sound smote upon my heart and hurt me as if it had been iron.

I had failed him.

He must suffer more in the knowledge of my unworthiness to be called the son of that master whom he had worshipped than in the destitution that might await him.
I reached the door.
"My lord! My lord!" he cried after me despairingly.

On the very threshold I stood arrested by that heartbroken cry of his.