The man was old, but looked older than he was, for sorrow and sickness had wasted him.

His snow-white hair hung upon his shoulders, his face was pale, and his features were pinched but finely-chiselled, and notwithstanding the difference of their years, wonderfully like to those of the daughter Rosamund.

For this was her father, the famous lord, Sir Andrew D'Arcy.
Rosamund turned and bent the knee to him with a strange and Eastern grace, while Wulf bowed his head, and Godwin, since his neck was too stiff to stir, held up his hand in greeting.

The old man looked at him, and there was pride in his eye.
"So you will live after all, my nephew," he said, "and for that I thank the giver of life and death, since by God, you are a gallant man--a worthy child of the bloods of the Norman D'Arcy and of Uluin the Saxon.

Yes, one of the best of them." "Speak not so, my uncle," said Godwin; "or at least, here is a worthier,"-- and he patted the hand of Wulf with his lean fingers.