Many and many a time, he groped back, in his fancy, to Jerusalem, where he had fought so well; or, at the head of his brave companions, bowed his feathered helmet to the shouts of welcome greeting him in Italy, and seemed again to walk among the sunny vineyards, or on the shore of the blue sea, with his lovely wife.

And then, thinking of her grave, and of his fatherless boy, he would stretch out his solitary arms and weep.
At length, one day, there lay in prison, dead, with cruel and disfiguring scars upon his eyelids, bandaged from his jailer's sight, but on which the eternal Heavens looked down, a worn old man of eighty.

He had once been Robert of Normandy.

Pity him! {Duke Robert of Normandy: p52.jpg} At the time when Robert of Normandy was taken prisoner by his brother, Robert's little son was only five years old.

This child was taken, too, and carried before the King, sobbing and crying; for, young as he was, he knew he had good reason to be afraid of his Royal uncle.