It was summer time, and the sun rose early; welcome was its light to our traveller, who rode on, trusting soon to reach a monastic house in the neighbourhood of Banbury, where a few poor English monks, not yet dispossessed by the Norman intruders, served God in their vocation, according to their light, and offered hospitality to the wayfarer.

To these poor monks Wilfred had been commended by the good prior of Aescendune, and with them he purposed to rest all day, for it was not safe to travel before nightfall without a Norman passport. For Norman riders, soldiers of fortune, infested all the highways, and they would certainly require Wilfred, or any other English traveller, to show cause for being on the road, and, in default of such cause, would render very rough usage.

It was now drawing near the third hour of the day, and Wilfred had already spied his resting place from the summit of a hill. In spite of his woes, too, he wanted his breakfast, and was already speculating on the state of the monastic larder, when the road entered a small wood.

It was not a straight road at all, and the rider could not see a hundred yards before him, when suddenly a troop of horse came round a curve at a smart trot, and were upon him before he could escape their notice.

"Whom have we here?" exclaimed the leader.

Wilfred knew him; it was that same Count Eustace de Blois, who had rescued him from danger on the field of Senlac, and taken him to the tent of the Conqueror.

His first impulse was to tell Count Eustace everything and to claim his protection. Then he remembered that this Eustace was the friend of his stepfather, and the distrust—not to say hatred—he was beginning to feel to all Normans overcame, unhappily it may be, the first generous impulse of confidence.

"It is I, Wilfred of Aescendune," he coldly replied.

"So I see," said the Norman, "and marvel to meet thee alone and unattended on the highway, so far from home. Thou hast thy father's permission?"

"I have no father," said Wilfred, in a tone which at once betrayed that something was amiss.

"Stepfather, of course, I would say, and I judge from thy reply that all is not well. Wilt thou not tell me what is wrong?"

"My errand is urgent, and I only crave permission to continue my road in peace."

"You are more likely to continue it in pieces, when so many outlaws and cutthroats are about, and my duty will not suffer thee to go farther till I know that thou hast thy father's, that is, the baron's permission."

Wilfred's only reply was to set spurs to his horse, and to try to escape by flight from his troublesome interrogator; but although he did succeed in clearing the party, his poor palfrey was tired, and the Norman horses were fresh, so the attempt was made in vain; he was pursued and brought back to Eustace de Blois.

"Why didst thou attempt to escape?" said that noble, grimly. "I fear that thou art playing the truant—against thine own interests, and must take thee with me whither I am bound, which happeneth to be Aescendune."

"Nay, I pray thee suffer me to proceed; life and death hang upon my errand."

"Confide in me then, and tell me all."

But Wilfred could not; in his then frame of mind, he could not confide the story of his mother's woes to a Norman—to his fevered mind one of the intruders was as bad as another—as well bring a complaint before one wolf that another wolf had eaten a lamb.

"I cannot," was his reply; "it would be useless if I did."

"Why? I have befriended thee once."

"Art thou not a Norman?"

"Ah! I see where the shoe pinches," replied Eustace; "thou hast found some traitors who have been instilling rebellion into thy youthful ears. Well, if they are found, they shall ere long lack tongues wherewith to prate, and for the present thou must return home with me. Wilt thou go as a freeman or as a prisoner?"

"You have the power and must use it."

"Wilt thou promise not to attempt an escape?"

"No."

"Then I must perforce pass a band from one leg to another, beneath the belly of thy steed, or thou mayst leave thy tired palfrey and ride behind me with a strap binding thee to my belt. Which dost thou choose?"

"Do as it pleaseth thee."

There was a sad, heart-broken tone in Wilfred's voice, in spite of the defiance of his words, which interested the Norman count, who was not, as we have before seen, all steel; and during the journey which Wilfred made as a captive, Eustace made sundry attempts to win the poor youth's confidence, but all in vain.

Riding all day, Wilfred retraced in this ignominious manner the road he had so eagerly traversed under the veil of night; and at length, towards sunset, they came in sight of the priory, the bridge, and the castle of Aescendune.

"I think I may cut these bonds now, and thou needest not be seen to return in the guise of a captive. Once more, tell me all; I will be thy mediator with thy father."

"Father!" repeated Wilfred with an expression indicative of something deeper yet than scorn or hatred, but he said no more.

The blast of trumpets from the approaching troop aroused the inmates of the castle, and they flocked to their battlements to behold the pennon of Eustace de Blois, familiar to them on many a hard-fought field of old.

Immediately there was bustling and saddling, and a troop of horse issued over the drawbridge to greet the coming guest. Foremost amongst them was the grim stepfather, and by his side rode Etienne.

Imagine their surprise when they recognised Wilfred in the train of their visitor; we can hardly paint fitly the scornful looks of Etienne, or the grimness of the stepfather.

But there was etiquette to be consulted—a most important element in the days of chivalry—and no question was asked until all the customary salutations had been made.

"I see my son Wilfred has been the first to welcome thee; may I ask where he met thee on the road?" asked Hugo, of Eustace.

"Many a long mile from here; I will tell thee more anon."

"Did he return of his own free will?" thought the baron, but politeness forced him to wait his guest's own time for the dialogue which he felt awaited him.

Meanwhile Etienne had regaled Wilfred with a succession of scornful glances, which, strange to say, did not affect the latter much—deeper emotions had swallowed up the minor ones, and he could disdain the imputation of cowardice, although he could not but feel that his attempted flight would be ascribed by every one to fear of the combat, which had been offered to, and accepted by him, and from which he could not otherwise have saved himself.

They dismounted within the courtyard, and Hugo made a certain communication to the seneschal. The latter came up to Wilfred as he stood listlessly in the crowd, the object of many a scornful glance.

"The baron, your father, bids you to follow me."

The old retainer led the way up a staircase. On the third floor there was a chamber with a small loophole to serve as window, through which nothing larger than a cat could pass. There was furniture—a rough table and chair, a rude bed, and mattress of straw.

"You are to remain here until my lord comes to release you."

The prisoner entered the chamber, and threw himself wearily on the bed, the door slammed with a heavy sound behind him, the steps of the gaoler (was he any better?) died away in the distance, and all was still, save a faint murmur from the courtyard below, or from the great hall, where the banquet was even now served.

Hours passed away, and a light step was heard approaching—it was certainly not the baron's. Soon a voice was heard through the crevices of the rough planks which formed the door.

"Wilfred, art thou here?"

"I am. Is it thou, Pierre?"

"It is. Why didst thou flee the combat? Thou hast disgraced thyself, and me, too, as thy friend."

"I cannot tell thee."

"Was it not fear, then?"

"It was not."

"Then at least vouchsafe some explanation, that I may justify thee to the others."

"I cannot."

"Thou wilt not."

"If thou wilt have it so."

"Farewell, then; I can be no friend to a coward."

And the speaker departed: Wilfred counted his steps as he went down the stairs. One pang of boyish pride—wounded pride—but it was soon lost in the deeper woe.

A few more minutes and the warder brought the lad his supper. He ate it, and then, wearied out—he had had no rest during the previous night as the reader is aware, and had been in the saddle for twenty hours—wearied out, he slept.

And while he slept the door softly opened, and the baron entered. At the first glance he saw the lad was fast asleep, as his heavy and regular breathing indicated. He did not awake him, but gazed upon the features of the boy he had so deeply injured, with an expression wherein there was no lingering remorse, but simply a deep and deadly hatred. At length he was about to awake the sleeper, when he saw the end of a packet of parchment protrude from the breast of the tunic. The baron drew it softly out.

It was the letter of Father Elphege to the Bishop of Coutances.

The baron was scholar enough to read it—few Normans were so, and fewer English nobles; but he was an exception. He read and knew all; he read, and blanched a deadly white as he did so; his knees shook together, and a cold sweat covered his face.

It was known, then; to how many? Probably only to the prior and Wilfred, for it was but a dying confession of yesterday, as he gathered from the letter.

A sudden resolution came upon him; he did not awake the sleeper, but retired to digest it at his ease in the security of his own chamber.

It was but little sleep the baron took that night. Hour after hour the sentinel heard him pacing to and fro. Had any one seen him, he would have judged that Hugo was passing through a terrible mental conflict.

"No, I cannot do it," he said, as if to some unseen prompter.

"It is the only way; crush all thine enemies at once, let not even a dog survive to bark at thee."

"But what would the world say?"

"The world need not know, if thou contrivest well."

"But such secrets will out—a bird of the air would carry the matter, if none else did."

"Such are the bogies with which nurses frighten children. Art thou not a man and a Norman?"

"But the poor monks—if they were but soldiers."

"The less crime if they perish—they are fitter to die; and they are but English swine, like their neighbours, of whom thou hast slain so many."

So, through the long hours did the Prince of Darkness commune with his destined prey. There are periods of temptation which none know in their intensity, save such as have by long habit encouraged the Evil One to tempt them—who have swallowed bait after bait, until they can digest a very large hook at last.

At length, just as the dawn was reddening the skies, the baron threw himself upon his pallet and slept, not the sleep of the innocent, for his features moved convulsively again and again, and sometimes it seemed as if he were contending with some fearful adversary in his dreams.

But no angel of good stood near his couch; long since had continual indulgence in evil driven his guardian away, and Satan had all his own way.

The sounds of life and activity were many about the castle, and still Hugo arose not, until the third or fourth hour. Then he swallowed hastily a cup of generous Gascon wine, and a crust of toasted bread, steeped in the liquor; after which he mounted his favourite steed, a high horse of great spirit, not to say viciousness, which none save himself cared to ride, and galloped furiously for hours through the forest, startling the timid deer and her fawn from many a brake.

It was evening when he returned: Wilfred had not yet been released.

Count Eustace had departed, not until he had sought an interview with Wilfred, in his prison chamber, which turned out to be a fruitless one; for, terrified although he was at the loss of his letter, the youth kept his secret.

It was a pity that he did so. Many a sad page yet to be written might have been saved. But was it unnatural that the poor orphan should feel an invincible reluctance to claim Norman aid? yet the Bishop of Coutances was Norman.

At length, supper being ready, Hugo came in and took his usual place at the head of the high table. All trace of his mental struggles was gone.

"Bring my son Wilfred down to the hall."

The attendants hasted, and soon reappeared with the English heir of Aescendune.

He was calm and composed—that unhappy youth; he looked the baron straight in the face, he did not honour Etienne or any one else with a single glance; but waited to be questioned.

"Wilfred of Aescendune," said his stepfather, "why didst thou absent thyself yesterday, and traverse dangerous roads without permission?"

No answer.

"Didst thou fly because thou fearedst the combat, which thine own unmannerly insolence had brought upon thee?"

"No."

It was the only word Wilfred spoke, and that with emphasis. Etienne sneered.

"Perhaps thou mightest not have fled hadst thou known that the combat would have been a mere form. I had instructed the marshal of the lists to prevent deadly results."

Again Etienne cast a look at his companions, which seemed to give the lie to these words.

"Wilt thou promise to make no further attempt to leave the demesne without permission if thou art released from superveillance?"

"No," once more.

"Then I will no longer retain the charge of thee. Thou shalt go and do penance at the priory of thy sainted namesake, till thou dost come to a better mind. I will send thee after supper, and give fitting charge to Father Elphege."

Wilfred was forced to sit down during the meal, but he ate nothing.

When it was ended, the baron called old Osbert the seneschal and gave his instructions. They led the youth away; he did not return the baron's half-ironical salutation, but departed with his guards in silence.

High was the wassail in the castle that night, and many casks of wine were broached; at length all sought their couches and slept heavily.

But in the middle of the night many sleepers were aroused by the cry of FIRE! yet so heavy with wine were they, that few arose; hut most heard it as a man hears some sound in his sleep, which he half suspects to belong to dreamland, and turns again to his pillow.

Imagine the surprise with which such men (including Etienne, Pierre, and the other late companions of the unhappy Wilfred) learned that the monastery had caught fire accidentally in the night, and that so sudden had been the conflagration that none had escaped.

None! No; so far as men could discover. The priory built by Offa of Aescendune was a heap of smoking embers, and monks were there none, neither had any heard aught of the English heir of Aescendune.

The poor English who yet remained in the village were weeping over their lost friends, and the very Norman men-at-arms were hushed in the presence of their sorrow.

The shades of evening fell upon the desolate ruins, but nought had occurred to alleviate the calamity: all seemed to have perished unaided in the suddenness of their destruction—a thing improbable—unheard of—yet so it was.

All seemed over—the English brethren and their guest blotted out from the earth. And none looked more contented than Baron Hugo.



CHAPTER VIII. VAE VICTIS.

If the Conqueror had really intended to govern the English justly, like his great predecessor Canute, circumstances over which he had small control were against him; when he committed himself to an unjust war of aggression against an unoffending people, for if Harold had given him offence, England had given none, he entered upon a course of evil in which he could not pause.

Canute was a heathen during his darkest and bloodiest days; when he became a Christian, his worst deeds lay behind him, and the whole course of his reign was a progress from evil to good, the scene brightening each day. This, our Second Chronicle sufficiently illustrates.

But William had no such excuse; he bore a high reputation for piety—as piety was understood in his day, before the invasion of England—he was, says a contemporary author, "a diligent student of Scripture, a devout communicant, and a model to prelates and judges."

But after ambition led him to stain his soul with the blood shed at Senlac, his career was one upon which the clouds gathered more thickly each day; his Norman followers clamoured for their promised rewards, and he yielded to this temptation, and spoiled Englishmen, thane after thane, to satisfy this greed, until the once wealthy lords of the soil were driven to beg their bread, or to work as slaves on the land they had once owned.

Early in 1067 William returned to celebrate his triumph in Normandy, and while he was absent the government of the conquered country was committed to his half brother, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and William Fitz-Osborne. These rulers heard no cry for redress on the part of the poor English, scorned their complaints, and repulsed them with severity, as if they wished by provoking rebellion to justify further confiscations and exactions; in short, they made it impossible for the Conqueror to pursue his policy of conciliation. Rebellions arose and were stifled in fire and blood, and henceforth there was simply a reign of terror for the conquered; on one side insolence and pride, on the other, misery and despair.

Many of the English fled to the woods for refuge, and were hunted down, when their tyrants could accomplish their wishes, like beasts of prey, stigmatised with the title of "robbers" or "outlaws." Such, as we have seen, was the case at Aescendune; and after the supposed death of Wilfred, no bounds were set to the cruelties and oppressions of Hugo and his satellites; their dungeons were full, their torture chamber in constant use, so long as there were Englishmen to suffer oppression and wrong.

Autumn, the autumn of 1068, came with all its wealth of golden store; the crops were safely housed in the barns, the orchards were laden with fruit, the woods had put on those brilliant hues with which they prepare for the sleep of winter—never so fair as when they assume the garb of decay.

Wilfred of Aescendune was gone. His tragical fate had aroused little sympathy amongst his Norman companions, hardened as they were by familiarity with scenes of violence; the burning of the abbey and the fiery fate of its inmates had been but a nine days' wonder. Etienne and his fellow pages spoke of their lost companion with little regard to the maxim, "nihil nisi bonum de mortuis," and seemed, indeed, to think that he was well out of the way.

There were few English left to mourn him: the baron would trust none in the castle, and the churls and thralls of the village had perished or taken refuge in the greenwoods, which lay, like a sea of verdure, to the north of the domain of Aescendune, where it was shrewdly suspected they might be found, enjoying the freedom of the forests, and making free with the red deer.

It was a primeval forest, wherein were trees which had witnessed old Druids, silver knife in hand, cutting the mistletoe, or which had stood in the vigour of youth when Caesar's legionaries had hunted those same Druids to their last retreats. Giant oaks cast their huge limbs abroad, and entwined in matrimonial love with the silver beech; timid deer with their fawns wantoned in the shade beneath, or wild swine munched the acorns. Here were slow sedgy streams, now illumined, as by a ray of light, when some monster of the inland waters flashed along after his scaly prey, or stirred by a sudden plunge as the otter sprang from the bank. Sometimes the brock took an airing abroad, and the wolf came to look after his interests and see what he could snatch.

While, in the upper regions, amidst that sea of leaves, whole tribes of birds, long since vanished from England, carried on their aerial business, and now and then the eagle made a swoop amongst them, and then there was a grand scattering.

Many a lonely pool there was, where the kingfisher had never seen the face of man; many a bushel, not to say waggon load, of nuts rotted for want of modern schoolboys to gather them; many an acre of blackberries wasted their sweetness on the desert air.

Now and then came the horn of the hunter, waking up the echoes, then the loud murmur of hounds, then the rush and clamour of the chase swept by, and all was quiet again, even as it is said to be in the solitudes of the Black Forest, when the Wild Huntsman has passed.

But there was a lonelier and yet wilder region, where the sound of the hunter's horn only penetrated in faint vibrations from the far distance.

This region was a deep and entangled morass, which had only been explored by the veteran hunter of former days, or by the hunted outlaw of the present. Streams had overflown their banks, the water had stagnated, rank foliage had arisen, and giant trees rotted in swamp and slime.

The Normans had never penetrated into this wilderness of slimy desolation, although, of course, they had again and again reached its borders and found bogs of bottomless depth, quagmires which would suck one out of sight in a few minutes, and at nightfall legions of evil spirits, as they thought them—for after dark these sloughs were alive with Jack-o'-lanterns, which men believed to be the souls of unbaptized infants.

In former Chronicles we have described the old hall of Aescendune, as it stood in Anglo-Saxon days; it was then rather a home, a kind of "moated grange," than a fortress.

But when Hugo the Norman took possession, he could not endure to live in a house incapable of standing a regular siege. And well he might have such feelings, when he remembered that he lived in the midst of a subject population, to whom his tyranny had rendered him and his men-at-arms hateful.

So he sent at once for Ralph of Evreux, a skilful architect, whose line lay in the raising of castles and such like, who knew how to dig the dungeon and embattle the keep, and into his hands he committed the rebuilding of the castle of Aescendune.

All was bustle and activity. The poor thralls of the estate were "worked to death;" stone had to be brought from an immense distance, for wood might burn if subjected to fiery arrows; the moat was deepened and water let in from the river; towers were placed at each angle, furnished with loopholes for archers; and over the entrance was a ponderous arch, with grate for raining down fiery missiles, and portcullis to bar all approach to the inner quadrangle, which was comparatively unchanged.

In short, the whole place was so thoroughly strengthened, that the cruel baron might laugh to scorn any attempts of the unhappy English to storm it, should they ever reach such a pitch of daring.

Below the castle walls the new priory was rapidly rising from the ruins of the olden structure. It was to be dedicated to St. Denys—for the Normans did not believe in any English saints—and then it was to be inhabited by a colony of monks from the diocese of Coutances-outre-mer.

This was to take place in order to please Bishop Geoffrey, who had made some inconvenient inquiries into the circumstances connected with the burning of the old abbey and the death of Wilfred.

But no awkward circumstances came to light; if there had been any foul play, the actors therein kept their own counsel.

An incident which happened about this time caused no little comment.

It was an October evening; the inmates of the castle (now properly so called) were assembled at supper in the great hall, after a long day's hunting of the wild boar.

In the middle of the meal, Pierre de Morlaix, who had tarried in the forest, entered, looking as pale as a ghost and very excited in manner, as if some extraordinary event had upset the balance of his mind. It was not without a very apparent effort that, remembering the composure of demeanour exacted by the feudal system from all pages, he repressed his excitement and took his usual place.

The baron, however, had marked his discomposure, and was curious to know its cause.

"Is aught amiss, Pierre?" he asked.

Pierre stammered, hesitated, then replied that there was nothing amiss, only that he believed he had seen a ghost, or something very much like one.

Dead silence fell on all, for the belief in ghosts was universal in that age, as also in witchcraft and sorcery.

"A ghost, silly boy; what ghost? Thy fancy hath converted some white cow into a spectre, in the uncertain light of the evening."

"Nay, I saw him too plainly."

"Saw whom?"

"Wilfred."

There was a pause—a dead pause, indeed; the baron changed colour and appeared to attempt to hide the perturbation of his spirit.

"Speak out, my son," said the chaplain, "such things are sometimes permitted by Heaven."

"Father, I was leaving the woods by the path which opens upon the summit of the hill, above the blasted oak, when I saw Wilfred, as when alive, standing on the summit, gazing upon the castle. He was between me and the evening light, so, although it was getting dark, I could not mistake him. He was deadly pale, and there was a look on his face I had never seen in life as he turned round and faced me."

"Well! didst thou speak?"

"I dared not; my limbs shook and the hair of my head arose—fearfulness and trembling seized hold of me."

Etienne sneered just a little, yet probably he would not have behaved better, only he might not have owned his fear.

"Well, did he disappear?"

"I looked again, and I thought he retreated into the woods, for he was gone."

"Did he seem to see you?"

"He did not speak."

"Well," said the chaplain, "we will say a mass for him tomorrow, to quiet his disturbed spirit, and he will, perhaps, vex us no more, poor lad."

Etienne and Louis were very anxious to hear all the details of Pierre's ghostly encounter, and questioned him very closely. The former vowed he would have challenged the spectre; he did not fear Wilfred living, nor would he fear him dead.

The whole conversation at the castle hearth that night was about ghosts, demons, witches, warlocks, vampires, werewolves, and such-like; and about two hours before midnight our young Normans went to bed pleasantly terrified.

It was All Saints' Day, the day appointed for the consecration of the new Priory of St. Deny's. The monks from Coutances had arrived. The bishop of that diocese, already known to our readers, had reached Aescendune to perform the ceremony, by permission of the Bishop of Worcester, the sainted Wulfstan, in whose jurisdiction the priory lay; and there was a grand gathering of Norman barons and their retainers.

Strange it was that the same Epistle and Gospel which still serve in the English Prayer Book for that day should have been read in the ears of the Norman warriors—that they should have heard the Beatitudes in the Gospel:

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God: Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy:"

—and then gone forth to work out their own righteousness in the manner peculiar to their nation. Well, perhaps there are not wanting similar examples of inconsistency in the nineteenth century.

So, with all the pomp of ecclesiastical ceremony, with gorgeous vestments, lighted tapers, and clouds of incense, the new building was dedicated to God.

And then, while the preparations for the evening banquet in the hall were being made by the menials of the kitchen, the guests had a grand tournament on the open mead in front of the castle, where they did not study how to perform works of mercy.

We have not space to tell who won the prizes in this famous passage of arms—who was unhorsed—whom the fair ladies crowned—save that the young Etienne (now in his eighteenth year) distinguished himself in every trial of skill or courage, unhorsed three youths successively who opposed him, bore off the suspended ring—while riding at full speed—on the top of his lance, and received the garland from the hands of the fair Countess of Warwick, who presided as Queen of the Jousts, amidst the applause of all present, who declared that so brave and knightly a youth ought to have his spurs at once.

He looked, indeed, handsome and brave, that typical Norman youth, as he advanced with becoming modesty to kneel and receive the token of his valour and success; his gallant demeanour and bright eyes—albeit he was somewhat olive in complexion—did great execution amongst the ladies, and they congratulated Hugo of Malville and Aescendune upon his hopeful son and heir. No one thought of poor Wilfred, save perhaps to reflect that he was well out of the way.

The bishop and his clergy departed to the priory, but the greater number of the laity remained for the evening banquet at the hall, served with all the magnificence for which the Normans were so renowned, while the prior and his brethren entertained the ecclesiastics at a more sober repast.

The hall was filled by an assemblage of lords and ladies, arrayed in such gorgeous apparel that it would need a far better milliner than the writer to describe it; all the colours of the rainbow were there, and the men had their share of the gaudy hues as well as the women. Hugo was quite a sight, as he sat upon a dais, at the head of the table, with his hopeful son—the hero of the day—on his right.

And then the viands—there was venison dressed a dozen different ways, beef and mutton, chine and haunch of the wild boar: peacocks—feathers and all, the feathers not roasted but stuck in their proper places after the poor bird left the oven—very beautiful, but very tough was this piece de resistance. There were all sorts of gravies, all kinds of soups.

Then the fish—the turbot, the salmon, and the perch, chub, trout, and eel from the inland streams. Pike had not yet appeared in our waters—they were a later importation—and other fish were more plentiful in consequence.

Then the pastry—the castles in pie crust, with fruity warriors to man their battlements—how should aught but cook describe them properly?

For awhile there was no conversation, save an occasional interjectional exclamation—"How good this fish!" "How tender this fowl!" Wines of Gascony and Burgundy were circulating freely, and were as usual brightening the eyes, quickening the tongue, and stimulating the palate.

But when appetite was satisfied, then began the buzz of conversation to arise, then the gleemen tuned their harps to sing the praises of Norman warriors; nor did the toasts linger, nor was the drinking of many healths absent.

Amongst the singers—men of many songs—those of wealth and rank occasionally took turn; but there was no brighter voice or sweeter song than that of Louis de Marmontier, the third of our trio of pages. He had distinguished himself that day in the lists, following closely in the steps of Etienne, and now he seemed likely to win the prize for minstrelsy, as he sang the song of Rollo, accompanying himself with thrilling chords on the harp, whose strings had never uttered sweeter notes.

All at once, just when the attention of every one was fixed on the singer, a startling interruption occurred, and the strings ceased to vibrate.

A man, whose head was streaming with blood, whose features were pale and ghastly, and who seemed scarcely able to support his fainting limbs, was approaching the high dais, upon which reclined his lord.

The song ceased—the cry was heard—"Help! my lord; they are burning Yew Tree Farm, and I only am escaped to tell thee."

Suddenly he trembled, staggered, and fell. They raised him up, but he was gone, his tale half untold. An arrow had pierced his breast, and he had spent his dying strength in a desperate attempt to reach his lord.

What had happened?

The horn was at this moment heard from the battlements, and its burden was "FIRE."

Hugo turned pale, in spite of his prowess, then cried out—"To horse! to horse!"

So crying, he rushed from the table, mounted his favourite steed, and, followed by such as could keep pace with him—there were not many—rode in the direction of the blaze, which was illuminating the northern sky.

Onward! onward! ride the Normans! Onward through bush or brake, or copse, or quagmire. Onward, till the clearing is reached, where the English Lords of Aescendune built Yew Farm.

When they arrived at the spot, Hugo and his Normans paused in astonishment.

For there, in the midst of the clearing, the farm buildings, one and all, stood enveloped in flames. It was plain, at first sight, that they must have been set on fire in many places at once, for in no other way could the flames have taken such complete and uniform hold.

But where were the inhabitants?

Not a living soul appeared, and the intense heat of the flames forbade closer observation.

And as they stood and gazed helplessly upon the conflagration, the remembrance of the burning of the Monastery came to many minds, and they wondered at the similarity of the circumstances.

"Was this the hand of God?"

At length roof after roof fell in with hideous din. The Normans waited about the spot and explored the neighbourhood, hoping to find, lighted by the lurid flame of the fire, that Roger and his labourers had found shelter somewhere. They searched in vain—they found no one.

Slowly and sadly the party returned homewards to attend to their duties but early next morning the baron and a chosen band rode to the scene again.

Thick clouds of smoke ascended to the skies; a pungent smell overpowered all the sweet odours of the forest; blackened beams and stones, cracked and shivered by the heat, lay all around.

What had caused the fire? Could it have been accidental?

They soon decided that it could not.

Two things seemed conclusive on this point—the first, the simultaneous outbreak in all parts of the buildings; the second, the fact that no one had escaped, save the man who bore the news, and died, his story but half told.

But what had been the fate of the rest? Had they been shut in the buildings, and so left to die as the flames reached them?

The terrible conviction that such had been the case became general; but at the same time the similarity of the circumstances with those under which the Monastery had been burnt would necessitate a like conclusion in that case also; and if so, who had then been the incendiary?

There were those amongst the retainers of Baron Hugo who could have answered this question, but they were all puzzled concerning the latter conflagration, for they knew of no gathering of their conquered foes, and they imagined they were acquainted with every nook of the forest, save the impenetrable morass in its centre.

On the morrow there was to have been a great hunt; but instead of the chase of beasts, the more exciting one of men was now substituted—the "murderers" should be hunted out, cost what it might—"The vermin should be extirpated."

The majority of the guests had departed the previous night, but many yet remained, the guests of Hugo, and with some of the wisest and most valiant of these he was taking counsel the following morning how best to track the outlaws, who had dared to commit this insolent deed, when Etienne appeared to announce that several of their people had not returned home from the fire, and amongst them his own fellow page, the minstrel of the previous night, Louis de Marmontier.

"We will find them; perchance they yet linger there. Bid a troop of horse be ready."

They mounted, rode, arrived on the scene, and found no one there. Then they separated in all directions, two or three in each group, to find their missing comrades.

Etienne and Pierre, with a dozen men at arms—for the baron would not let them go forth less strongly attended—were eager in the search, for they loved their companion, and were very anxious about his safety.

Midway between the castle and the burnt farm, slightly out of the track, was a huge oak, and around it a slight space clear of undergrowth. A brook ran close by—a stream of sweet sparkling water—and Etienne rode thither to give the horses drink, when, as he approached, he saw the form of a youth leaning down, as if drinking, and thought he knew the dress.

He approached eagerly. Yes, it was Louis; but he did not stir. Etienne dismounted and discovered the fact he had already anticipated: his young companion was dead: an arrow, evidently shot close at hand, had pierced his chest. The poor lad had but slight defensive armour—a light cuirass thrown on at the first alarm.

He had fallen and been left for dead, but had evidently afterwards dragged himself to the brook, in the agony of thirst, and had died while attempting to drink.

They placed the body reverently on the moss at the foot of the tree, and for a time were silent. The remembrance of his activity and gaiety on the previous day, and of his sweet minstrelsy on the very eve of his voice being hushed for ever, came sadly to their minds. At length Etienne broke the silence.

"Draw forth the arrow," he said.

They drew it forth and gave it him, bloodstained as it was: he looked closely upon it.

"This is an arrow from the same quiver as that which killed Gislebert; it is of English make, such as those clumsy louts use."

It was indeed a heavy, broad shaft, quite unlike the slender, tapering arrows of Norman workmanship, adapted for a long flight, in days when a furlong was considered a boy's distance.

"Our own serfs turn upon us. Well, they will rue it ere long; a short shrift and a long rope will be their portion."

"Ah! I remember noticing such in the quiver of the young thrall Eadwin," said Pierre—"he whose hand you sought to cut off for poaching."

They said no more on that occasion, but pursued in silence the train of thought suggested.

It was a strange gathering that night at the castle; for corpse after corpse was borne in from the woods to receive Christian burial at the priory, all killed by arrows, and those arrows—which the slayers had not troubled to remove, as if they disdained reprisals—all of the clumsy sort used by the "aborigines"



CHAPTER IX. A HUNT IN THE WOODS.

The winter of the year 1068 was setting in with great severity, sharp winds from the north and east had already stripped the faded leaves from the trees of the forest, and the heavens were frequently veiled by dark masses of cloud, from whence fast-falling snow ever and anon descended.

The winter opened drearily for the inhabitants of Aescendune, for the "mystery of the forest" was yet unsolved; none knew whence those incendiaries had issued who had given Yew Farm, with all its inmates, to the vengeful flames; but that this latter conflagration was in some way connected with the earlier destruction of St. Wilfred's Priory seemed not unlikely to most men.

Hugo de Malville cum Aescendune was not the man to sit calmly on the battlements of his newly-built towers and survey the destruction of his property, although he was not free from a terrible dread that his sins were finding him out, at which times he was like a haunted man who sees spectres, invisible to the world around.

Well did he surmise from whom the deadly provocation came, the loss of his farm, the death of a noble lad committed to his care; not to mention the loss of some common men, who could easily be replaced: for there were ever fresh swarms of Normans, French, and Bretons pouring into poor old England, as though it were some newly discovered and uninhabited land.

The aggressors, he doubted not, were the outlaws his tyranny had driven to the forests, the forerunners of the Robin Hoods and Little Johns of later days, whose exploits against the Norman race awoke the enthusiasm of so many minstrels and ballad makers {x}.

But all his efforts were in vain: neither men nor dogs could track the fugitives, although all the woods were explored, save only that impassable Dismal Swamp, where all seemed rottenness and slime, and where it could scarcely be imagined aught human could live.

Day after day the vengeful baron ranged the woods with his dogs and men-at-arms, but all in vain.

Neither would Etienne forbear his woodland sports, although the stragglers in the forest were constantly cut off by their unseen foe; but in his hunts, accompanied by Pierre, his sole surviving companion, he sought more eagerly for the tracks of men than of beasts, and vowed he would some day avenge poor Louis.

Brave although the Normans were, they hesitated to remain in the outlying cottages and farms which were yet untouched by the destroyer, and therefore, by their lord's permission, concentrated their forces in and around the castle, where they kept diligent watch, as men who held their lives in their hands, and shunned the woods after nightfall.

For night after night the fatal fires blazed, now at one extremity of the domain, now at another, until there threatened to be very little left to burn, unless some prompt and decisive measures were taken; but superstitious fears united with natural ones to assist the unseen enemy, by paralysing the courage of the hitherto invincible Norman.

This state of things could be endured no longer; and the baron sent embassies to the neighbouring barons to beg their aid against a combination of outlaws united against law and society, who had burnt his farms and slain his retainers, and whom, owing to his limited numbers, he had yet failed to exterminate.

The Normans clung together; hence their power—as the weakness of the poor English was disunion—and favourable replies being received, a day was appointed for a general search to be made in the forest by the barons living near its borders.

It came at last—a day in November, when the sun seemed making a last effort to prevail against coming winter. The wind was fresh and bracing, and nature appeared bright and cheerful, on that long-to-be-remembered morning.

Early in the morn, just after sunrise, Bernard de Torci, Gilbert d'Aubyn, Eustace de Senville, and a large body of their retainers, arrived at the castle. They found the men of Aescendune prepared to receive them, and the leaders entered the council chamber of their host.

There they perfected their plans—the forest was divided into portions, and a district assigned to each leader to be subdivided and thoroughly explored. All human tracks were to be followed up by the help of the hounds, and prisoners, when taken, to be sent, under guard, to the castle, there to be rigorously examined, if necessary by torture.

The only part of the scheme presenting any real difficulty was the morass in the centre of the forest, already known to our readers. Hugo believed it impenetrable, and that no human being could live within its area; but he sent for his chief huntsman, and examined him before his fellow nobles.

He found that old Ralph regarded the Dismal Swamp, as they called the morass, as utterly uninhabitable and impassable; he had never heard any sounds of life from within; he thought the place haunted; it abounded in quagmires, and corpse lights and baleful fires were seen on its waters at night.

The man was dismissed, and it was decided, that the borders of the morass should be explored, although with little hope of finding any trace of the foe; but should such be found, it was not to be neglected, the more especially if the search were conducted elsewhere in vain.

The northern part of the forest fell to Hugo's share, and was subdivided by him between his chief retainers. Every nook was to be investigated, and signals were arranged whereby all the hunters could be assembled together in case of need.

The work was a very arduous one, for the portion assigned to the retainers of Aescendune alone, occupied a circuit of some fifteen miles, bounded on the east by a stream which ran into the Avon, on the north by a well-defined range of wooded hills.

This was the most important section of all, for what faint indications had been gained of the whereabouts of the foe, all pointed in this direction.

The men-at-arms were divided into five distinct bands, lightly armed, because of the distance they had to travel, and Etienne claimed and obtained the command of one party.

However, the baron, while he had no doubt of his son's valour, grievously doubted his discretion, and added to the party Ralph, his chief forester, strictly charging Etienne in any difficulty to be guided by his advice—directions which the young heir received with a toss of the head, which spoke volumes for his submission.

They entered the forest—a gallant array, each party numbering about twenty, and there were nearly twenty of such bands; but when they divided and again subdivided, and each took their different routes, they appeared lost in the vastness of the forest, and in a very few minutes every band was so isolated that they heard no sounds indicating that any save themselves were in the wood.

We will leave all other parties to their fate, and confine our attention to that commanded by Etienne, which, indeed, was destined to surpass all the others in the results accomplished, and in their influence on the future destinies of all the personages in our history.

They proceeded fully five miles from home before their real task began. Perhaps the reader will wonder how they could know their own destined region in so pathless a wilderness, but it was part of the training they had received as hunters to find their way in the lonely woods; and there were signs innumerable which told them where they were, and in what direction they were going. Etienne alone, could guide his men while day lasted, as well as a pilot could steer a ship in a well-known archipelago, and in Ralph he had a tower of strength.

Every landmark was known—the course of every stream; each tree, by the direction in which it threw its boughs and by the mosses at the foot of its trunk, told the points of the compass.

Yet there were probably, in so large an extent of country, many wild glens and deep fastnesses hitherto untraversed, and these had to be discovered and explored.

Straight through the territory assigned to them marched our little band; keen-nosed dogs went first, secured by leashes, that the game they continually aroused might not lead them astray; men followed who, like American Indians, looked for "trails" in every soft surface of ground, and along the banks of each stream of sweet water, where men might come to drink, but by noon they had traversed the whole extent of their territory in a straight line, and discovered nothing. Once, indeed, they thought they were on the scent of man; but they had crossed the trail of a wild boar and could not restrain themselves from following it up, the scent was so fresh, and herein they wasted much time, but succeeded in killing their boar; and Etienne at once proposed that, since it was midday, they should light a fire and dine upon its flesh.

The forester, old Ralph, objected that the smoke would reveal their presence, and frustrate the object of their expedition; but the young noble replied so rudely that the old man withdrew his objection.

The fire was kindled, the smoke arose high above the tree tops in the clear atmosphere, and soon the poor boar was dissected, and the choicest parts of his flesh held on spits. 'Twas somewhat fresh, but none the worse, thought the roasters, for that.

The glade in which they were seated, through which the little brook foamed and tumbled, was surrounded by magnificent old oaks, some with hollow trunks, others with branches gnarled and twisted in a thousand fantastic shapes, some yet retained a portion of their leaves—brown and sere, one or two were enveloped with ivy, and here and there the mistletoe could be seen, thick and verdant. It was a spot the Druids must have delighted to haunt in the times gone by, and one a painter might like to hap upon now in his woodland strolls.

Some fallen logs were close by the stream, and upon these one party placed the viands, or seated their own comely forms, while others piled fresh sticks upon the fire, and held out the fizzing meat on spits—full of enjoyment of the hour, and utterly careless of danger.

Pierre was seated on one of the fallen trees; Etienne was playing with the dogs, now only two in number, when the elder of them lifted its nose in the air, and then began to growl ominously.

"The dog begins to be uneasy," said old Ralph.

"Another wild boar, probably."

"Had we not better appoint a sentinel or two? we might be taken by surprise in this glade."

"Ralph, where hast thou left thy manhood? Art thou afraid of these shadows?"

"They were not shadows who burnt our farms."

"I wish they had some substance, then we might get hold of them."

"May I appoint men to keep watch?"

"It is not necessary," replied Etienne, quite wilfully, for he had determined not to be advised.

The meal was now prepared, and the whole party gathered round the fire, arranging the logs so as to form seats. They were soon eating with the zest of men who have had the advantage of forest air, when they were disturbed by another growl from the older dog.

Ralph looked uneasily round.

"He smells another boar, but one is enough for our dinner," said Etienne, and they turned again to their meal.

Suddenly one of their number, a woodman named Gilbert, leapt up with a wild cry, and then fell down in their midst dead.

An arrow had pierced his heart.

The Normans rose aghast at this sudden intrusion of death, and gazed wildly around.

But all was yet silent, no war cry followed this deadly act of hostility—the woods seemed asleep.

"To cover," cried Ralph the forester, assuming instinctively the command; "let your own arrows be ready for these lurking cowards."

And the Normans, sheltering themselves behind the trunks of the trees, stood, their arrows fitted to the string, to await the onset they momentarily expected.

But it did not take place, and after a trying pause of some minutes, Etienne, who had quite recovered his audacity, and who was a little nettled at being, as it were, superseded in the command for the moment, shouted:

"Keep your eyes open and search the cover, the miscreants have probably fled, but we may put the dogs on the track."

The obedient vassals obeyed, not without some hesitation, for they felt that the moment of exposure might be that of death. Still they were forced to undergo the risk, and they searched the immediate neighbourhood, omitting no precautions that experience in woodland warfare suggested.

But all their search was in vain.

"Shall we blow the horn and summon further assistance?" said Ralph.

"No, we shall but recall the other parties from their duties," said Etienne, not wisely, for the cause was sufficient—they were at least in the neighbourhood of the foe whom all panted to discover; but he was angry with the old forester, and would receive no suggestion.

The dogs, although they ran hither and thither, their noses to the ground, seemed as much in fault as the men, and after an hour had passed in this vain attempt to track the invisible foe, Etienne gave orders to abandon the spot and resume their appointed task, for they had yet to explore a square mile or two of forest—those nearest the morass.

But here Ralph ventured a remonstrance; the day was far spent, they had but an hour or two of daylight, and there were heavy clouds in the northeast, which seemed to indicate a snowstorm; he thought "they had better return towards home as fast as they could, and finish their work on the morrow."

"If thou fearest for thyself, I give thee leave to return, old man; for me, I will stay here till my duty is accomplished, and so will all who value their fealty."

"It is the first time one of thy house has ever thus spoken to me, my young lord."

"Let it be the last time then," said the proud youth; "it depends but upon thyself; and now lead the way—our path is westward. Examine the ground closely; we know we are in the neighbourhood of the foe."

They obeyed, and an hour passed away without any further alarm, when the dogs recommenced their warning growls.

The men appeared terrified: they knew what had followed those warnings before, and their light jerkins of untanned leather were not proof against arrows. They directed their keenest glances into the forest.

The tall trees rose like the pillars of a cathedral, supporting the fretwork of branches on every side; here and there some monarch of the woods had fallen, and was now covered over with ivy; but no other shelter seemed at hand which might conceal a foe, save some little undergrowth here and there.

But the most serious thing was the hour; the day was fast declining; the clouds which floated above them were fast assuming those roseate tints which they receive from the setting sun; while behind them vast masses, which looked black by contrast with the glowing west, were slowly obscuring the heavens, and the winds were heard moaning more and more loudly as each minute passed.

There was hardly a member of the band who did not share Ralph's uneasiness, and who would not have given much to find himself safe in the castle; but their wilful young leader was still unmoved—it must be owned that his courage bordered on foolhardiness.

At length the darkness came, as with a rush, upon them; the black clouds were overhead; some feathery flakes of snow blew about them—precursors of the coming storm. Their work was still unaccomplished, but Etienne at length heeded the murmurs of the party, and calling them together, for they had dispersed to look after the signs they hoped to find, said:

"I fear we must leave our work unfinished—we can see no longer, and may as well return home."

"My lord, would it please thee to number the party? we should be twenty."

"Count them thyself," he said.

"Fifteen."

"We left one behind us where we rested, but where are the rest?" said Ralph.

"It is useless to search for them now—it is so dark, the hour is late—we must return tomorrow."

"Perhaps," said the old forester, sorrowfully, "but we are in a forest infested by these English fiends, perhaps by real demons. There are many who affirm as much, and there is not a man here who might not profitably give up a year of his life to be just five miles nearer home."

The old man took the office of guide upon himself, naturally, as the most experienced in woodcraft, and for a mile or two led with confidence; but at length the darkness became intense, and the guide paused.

The night was indeed terrible; it was as black as ink—they could scarce see the uplifted hand when held before the face; while, to add to their discomfort, the snow, now they had changed their course, blew into their faces; the wind had risen and moaned in hollow gusts amidst the tree tops. Its wailings seemed like prognostications of coming evil.

It was at this juncture Ralph was forced to confess he could no longer feel certain of the track.

"Let us trust to the dogs," said he; "they have an instinct better than our reason. Let them have long leashes, and go as freely as possible; we shall easily follow them, and, please God, shall reach home in time."

"There is a better guide," replied Etienne, as they all suddenly saw a solitary light, as from a man carrying a torch, arise before them in the darkness, and glide gently on into the depths of the forest.



CHAPTER X. EVEN THE TIGER LOVES ITS CUB.

We must once more use the privilege of an author, and transport our readers from the distant forest to Aescendune, speedily as the Genius of the Lamp transported the palace of Aladdin.

The November evening was setting in drearily, the fast-fading gleams of daylight were disappearing amidst thickly-falling snow—it was the hour when tired mortals shut doors and windows, turn instinctively to the cheerful hearth, and while they hear the wind roar without, thank God they are sheltered from its blasts; and perhaps think with some pity of poor homeless wanderers, in pathless forests, or on dismal moors.

Troop after troop, the wearied and dispirited Normans returned from their fruitless chase, till all were safely housed, save one unhappy band. First came the wicked old baron himself, with all his twenty retainers, safe and sound, then Bernard de Torci, who had won to himself an English wife and the manor of Wylmcotte; then Gilbert D'Aubyn of Bearleigh. One after another the troops came in from the outer darkness, white with snow, and shook their mantles and jerkins in the guard chamber within the entrance archway, after which their leaders repaired to the bathroom—for, in their way, the Norman warriors were luxurious—and afterwards, perfumed and anointed, donned the festal robes in which they hoped to dazzle the eyes of the fair, if such were to be found in the Castle of Aescendune.

The hour appointed for the banquet was the first hour of the night—six in the evening we should now call it—and the Majordomo sought his lord.

He found him risen from the bath and vested in flowing robes of richest texture, with an ermine mantle around his shoulders.

"The banquet is ready, my lord, but the guests have not all arrived."

"Has my son returned?"

"He has not come back yet, my lord. Shall I delay the banquet?"

"Are all the others in?"

"Sir Eustace de Senville has not yet come from the forest."

"Let it be delayed half an hour."

The old servant shook his head—the roast meats were done to a turn, and he feared the reputation of the ten cooks, who had toiled the long afternoon before the fires, might suffer.

The baron paced impatiently up and down his chamber.

There is some redeeming feature in the hearts of the worst of us: even Lady Macbeth could not herself slay King Duncan, "he looked so like her father," and the one weak point in the armour of proof—of selfishness, we should say—which encrusted Hugo de Malville, was his love for his son.

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.

It was a bright and dazzling scene: at the head of the hall sat the Baron and his chief guests upon a platform. Above it hung trophies of war or the chase—arms borne in many a conflict, swords, spears, arrows—to each of which some legend was attached; the antlers of the giant stag, the tusk of the wild boar, the head and bill of some long-necked heron.

Below, at right angles to the high table, were three other tables, not fixtures, but composed of boards spread over trestles, and covered with coarse white cloths. At these sat the retainers, the men whose rank did not entitle them to sit at the high table, to the number of some three hundred—there was not an Englishman amongst them.

All day long the cooks and their menials had groaned before the huge fires, where they roasted deer, sheep, oxen, swine, and the like, and now they bore the joints in procession around the tables, and the guests cut off—with the knives which hung at their girdles, and which, perchance, had been more than once stained by the blood of their foes—such portion of the meat as they fancied, transferred it to their trenchers, and ate it without the aid of forks; nevertheless there were napkins whereon to wipe their hands when they had done.

The leaders sat at the high table—the leaders of each of the numerous bands which had scoured the forest; one, and only one, was absent, and he was, as our readers know, Etienne, son of Hugo.

Naught was said until hunger and thirst were appeased—until basins were brought round with scented water, in which our lords washed their fingers, and after waving them gracefully in the air, dried them with the delicate napkins with which they were girded: and rich wines were poured into goblets of gold and silver; then Hugo asked, from his seat upon the dais:

"What success has gladdened our arms today? Doubtless some of our knights have news for us."

"I have seen no foe, save the wild boar and a stray wolf, although I have tramped the forest from the rising to the setting sun," said Sir Bernard.

"Nor I," "nor I," said one after the other around the table.

The old man, Eustace de Senville, was silent till all had spoken; then, like Nestor of old, wise, and qualified by age to act as counsellor, he let fall his weighty words, which fell from his lips like the flakes of thick falling snow without.

"My lot hath been different," he said; "it fell to me to explore the quarter of the forest next to that assigned to the son of our host. We had already completed our task, and were on the point of returning homewards, for the sun was already low, when we heard the blast of a horn appealing to us for aid."

"From what quarter?" said the baron.

"That assigned to your son. We at once hastened to render help, and, after some fruitless search, heard the horn once more, and, guided by its sound, reached a spot where the groans of one in pain fell upon our ear, amidst the increasing darkness of the forest. We found the victim, his horn by his side, dead—pierced through by an arrow. The life had been ebbing when, hearing our signals, he had striven with his last breath to summon us that he might not die alone, and, indeed, his face looked as one who had died in awful fear with some gruesome sight before his eyes."

"To what party did he belong?"

"He wore the badge of Aescendune, he was short of stature, one shoulder somewhat higher than the other, and he wore this belt, which we have brought home in hopes he may be known thereby."

The baron took the belt, with hands which shook in spite of all his efforts at composure, and knew it to belong to one Torquelle, who had been in attendance on his son.

"Etienne hath found foes," he said in a voice which he strove to render calm.

"A light snow had begun to fall," continued the speaker, "the sun was already very low, and it was dusk in the woods, when our dogs began to growl. Dimly in the shade we saw three or four beings creeping forward, as if studying the ground carefully. We watched them with fear, doubting if they were of this world."

"Why?"

"They had horns, and tails, and huge ears."

"They say the wood is haunted by wood demons."

"Then thou wert afraid to follow?"

"We dare fight men, we fear none who breathe; but we shrink from Satan and his hosts. Still we sent a flight of arrows, and they vanished."

"Was the distance near enough to do execution?"

"Scarcely, had they been men; it mattered not if they were what they appeared to be."

Strange to say, the idea that the foe had been masquerading for the purpose of frightening them, never struck our Normans.

"When they had gone, we approached the spot," continued the aged knight of Senville, "and found foot marks in the snow, which, from the previous fall, lay lightly on the ground, for the storm of tonight had hardly set in. There were marks of one of our parties, and we saw by torchlight strange footprints, as if they had been tracked by two or three daring foes—we thought we distinguished hoof marks."

A terrible silence fell upon the whole assembly, as the idea that they had been contending with demons, and not with mortals, fell upon them, and perhaps the bravest would have hesitated to enter the forest that night, however dire the need.

The baron knew this; yet when supper was over, when the hour of retiring to rest had arrived, and still there were no signs of his son, he selected a band of trusty warriors, who, in spite of the story of the demons, which Eustace's men had made known throughout the castle, would not be untrue to their lord.

And with these men, while all the rest slept, he penetrated the forest, and with torches and horns made night hideous, until cold and fatigue drove him home, his heart heavier than before, his desire unaccomplished.

He threw himself upon his couch, only to be haunted by dreadful dreams, in which he saw his son surrounded by the demons of Sir Eustace's tale, and in every other variety of danger or distress, like the constantly shifting scenes of a modern theatre.

And in all these dreams the "Dismal Swamp" played a prominent part.

Day broke at last, cold but bright; the first beams of the sun gladdened the castle, reflected keenly from the white ground, the trees hung with frozen snow, which had broken many branches to the ground—the winter seemed to have come in good earnest.

Early in the day, a hundred men, well armed and mounted, led by the baron, again entered the forest. They reached, in due course, the part of the wood assigned to Etienne on the previous day.

The snow had effaced all tracks, but Sir Eustace speedily found the spot where he had left the dead man, and there was the corpse, stiff and frozen, but it was evident that the knight's description given the previous evening was all too correct. The man had died in great horror and anguish; the arrow yet remained in his body. It was, as in the earlier cases, one of English make—a clumsy shaft, unlike the polished Norman workmanship.

"We must search the whole district," said the baron; "but we had better keep together."

Every one shared this opinion.

It was the unknown danger that troubled them, the thought that supernatural powers were arrayed against them, that the English had called the fiends to their aid, which terrified these hardened warriors.

If the English had, indeed, sought by ghostly disguise to affright their foes, they had well succeeded.

It was late in the morning before the glade was reached where our party had rested, and the body of the man first slain was discovered, and the whole band gathered around it.

Like the others, he had fallen by an English arrow.

The fear that all their friends had thus fallen became general, and expressed itself in their countenances. The baron was livid.

There was no possibility of tracing the party, the snow had covered the footsteps; but evidence was soon found in the fragments of food—the remains of the carcase of the wild boar—to show that this had been the midday rest, and that here the very beginning of hostilities had taken place.

They returned thence to the spot where Torquelle was slain. Fear and trembling seized many of the baron's warriors as they gazed upon those distorted features—fear, mingled with dread—so mysterious were the circumstances. They buried the body as decently as time permitted, and continued their course until they came upon another corpse slain in like manner.

Horror increased: at every stage the baron feared to find the dead body of his son. They still pursued the same line: it led to the edge of the Dismal Swamp, and there it ended.

They stood gazing upon that desolate wilderness.

"No human being could penetrate there," said Sir Bernard.

"Try."

Hugo advanced, dismounting for the purpose, but sank almost directly in a quagmire covered with snow, and was drawn out with difficulty.

"No, the place is enchanted."

"Guarded by fiends."

"Listen."

Cries as of men and dogs came across the waste.

"They are the demons of the pit, who would lead us into the quagmires."

"They sound like human voices."

"Come what will, if hard frost will but freeze the ground, we will search the place," said the baron. "Come, my men, we can do no more; let us return—it is near nightfall."

This welcome order was obeyed by all the Normans with the greatest alacrity, for they dreaded the approach of night, and the terrors of the forest, which had already proved so fatal to their companions.

No further mishap befell them; weary and footsore they reached the castle, but the heaviest heart amongst them was that of Hugo.



CHAPTER XI. ALIVE—OR DEAD?

The reader will remember that we left Etienne of Aescendune cum Malville and his band in a most critical moment—lost in a wilderness full of enemies of unknown number and uncertain position; but with a gleam of comfort in the shape of a light which had arisen out of the gloom before them.

"It is one of the rascals carrying a torch. Let loose the dogs; if they but seize him, we can extort the whole truth; then we shall know what to do."

Ralph immediately slipped the older and fiercer hound, and tried to set him on the destined prey; but to his astonishment the beast bounded forward but a few yards, then returned with its tail between its legs and whined piteously.

"Are we all bewitched?" exclaimed Etienne.

"Witches and warlocks are said to abound in these woods, and many other works of Satan also."

"The light goes steadily onwards: it is a man carrying a torch; let us follow him up."

They followed rapidly, the torch going smoothly on before them, when all at once the whole party fell into a miry slough up to their waists.

The deceitful light danced about in a joyous manner, as if it were mocking them, and then went out and left them all in utter darkness, struggling vainly in the mud and slime.

"Where are we?" said Pierre, piteously.

"In the Dismal Swamp," said Ralph.

"Amongst toads and snakes," cried another.

At this moment half-a-dozen lights appeared in various directions.

"Good heavens, the place is alive with marsh fires."

"They are what the English call Jack-o'-lanterns."

"They are ignes fatui," said Pierre.

"They are the souls of unbaptized babies," said Ralph. "Let us try to return to the firm ground we have left."

More easily said than done. Our unfortunate Normans struggled vainly in the darkness and in the mire, uttering piteous exclamations—cold and frozen, and mocked ever and anon by some blazing light. Many a vow did they make to our Lady of Sorrows, and to St. Erroutt, St. Gervaise, St. Denys, and every other Norman saint, till somebody suggested that the English saints might know more about the morass, and they condescended to appeal to St. Chad (mighty in those parts), beseeching his help in their distress.

Suddenly a piercing cry told that one was being swallowed up in some quicksand; but they could give no aid, and only shudder in helplessness.

At that moment Etienne caught hold of the loose leash by which one of the dogs was secured.

"Let us follow the dogs," he said; "they always scent out firm ground."

There was now, happily for them, more light; it had long since ceased to snow, and the stars came out brightly.

"See," said Pierre, "the moon is rising; we shall have it quite light soon."

"Would it had risen earlier," croaked Ralph.

The dogs, their noses to the ground, went on bravely, winding in and out between quagmire and rotting herbage. Had the light been brighter, our Normans would have perceived the impressions of numerous footmarks of men on the path they were taking—the dogs were at last on the scent they had sought all day, whether for weal or for woe.

At length the path suddenly ascended a bank, and the light through the tree tops showed that they were approaching a clearing.

They ascended cautiously, and from the summit of the short ascent looked out upon an elevated tableland in the midst of the morass. Before them, encircled by a little brook, which shortly afterwards swelled the waters of the morass, stood a large rustic dwelling, overgrown with ivy; and not far distant rose many houses or huts—in fact, to their no small amazement, they beheld a village, and one, too, that no individual amongst them had ever seen or heard of before.

"'Tis the very nest of vipers we have sought all day," said Etienne.

"And have found to our undoing," lamented Ralph.

"See, there is light behind that shutter, I will creep up and look in," said Etienne; "rest you all here."

There was no glass in common use in those days, and, save when horn was employed, people—the poor at least—had to choose, even in the daytime, between darkness and warmth; for when they let in the light, they let in the weather.

Looking through the chinks in the shutters, Etienne gazed inside.

It was the farmhouse occupied by a former lord, Elfwyn of Aescendune, during the Danish invasions, as recorded in a former Chronicle, and was larger and more commodious than usual in those days. There were several smaller houses, or rather huts, around; but if they had inmates, they were all silent—perhaps asleep, for the hour was late.

Beside a fire, kindled beneath a large open chimney, such as were then in use in the bettermost houses—for the poor were content with a hole in the roof—sat a youth of some sixteen years of age, busily attending to a large pot over the fire, from which, from time to time, savoury fumes ascended, the odour of which gladdened even the olfactory organs of our young Norman aristocrat.

Etienne knew him: it was Eadwin, the son of Wilfred's old nurse, for whom he had an ancient grudge, which he at once resolved to gratify.

He summoned Ralph and the rest who had escaped the morass—they were only ten in number, the others had succumbed to the horrors of that fearful night.

Yet even so, the impulses of pride and cruelty were not subdued in the heart of Etienne, son of Hugo.

"The English robbers have left their haunt for a time; doubtless they were the fellows who passed us in the forest, and there is but one boy left in charge, of whom I know something; we will seize him and learn the truth."

"Suppose they come back while we tarry here?"

"We will set a watch to warn us in good time."

Etienne stepped lightly to the door; it was actually unbarred, so secure did the English feel in this hitherto inaccessible retreat, and his hand was on the shoulder of his intended victim before he had taken the alarm. He turned round and started violently as he recognised his ancient enemies, then made a vain attempt to gain the door, which was immediately and easily frustrated.

"Nay, thou young oaf, thou canst not escape. Dost thou not know thy own lords? Thou art a runaway thrall, and thy life is forfeited; but if thou wilt but use thy tongue, thou mayest perchance save it and escape lightly. Tell me—Who are the people who live here? Who is their leader? How many there be? Where they are now?"

The young dweller in the woods had by this time recovered his self possession. He was a mere lad, yet endued with manly courage which fitted him to endure nobly for the sake of those whom he loved.

"Thou art not my true lord, and never wast; neither will I answer thy questions, though thou slay me."

"Then thou mayst prepare for death."

"They live who may avenge me."

"We will chance that. Stand yonder, against the wall, stretch out thine arms, or they shall be stretched for thee.

"Tie him, my men, to that post—" pointing, as he spoke, to one of the uprights which supported the roof, and which was partially detached from the wooden wall—"and extend his arms to the posts on either side."

Conscious that resistance was hopeless, Eadwin submitted quietly to be bound, listening nevertheless so eagerly for sounds from without that Ralph marked his strained attention; Etienne was intent upon his designed cruelty.

"Once more, wilt thou answer me?" he said.

"No," said his victim, quietly and firmly.

"Then thou must suffer. Thou shalt die as thy St. Edmund did—fit death it was, too, for a beggarly English saint. I ask thee for the last time."

No reply. Etienne bade the men stand aside, and then, taking his stand at the other end of the room, which may have been twenty feet long, took accurate aim and shot an arrow through the muscle of the right arm.

"Wilt thou speak?"

Beads of sweat stood upon the brow; but the lips found strength yet to answer—once more the bolt flew, and the left arm was pierced in turn.

"Wilt thou answer my questions now?

"The rebels and fools, thy countrymen, have been amusing themselves by shooting at us all day; methinks the tables are turned now."

He shot again and wounded his victim in the shoulder. The whole frame trembled; the lips moved, as if in prayer.

"Let me shoot this time," said Pierre, "if he will not answer."

"Take the bow then; hit the other shoulder."

Pierre took very accurate aim, and shot right through the heart. One convulsive throb, and the body hang by the cords dead, and past the reach of suffering.

"Thou fool!" said Etienne, forgetting his customary courtesy to his equals, "thou hast spoilt all—we may never learn the truth now."

"He was too brave a lad to be tortured," said Pierre, upon whom the patient courage of the sufferer had made a very deep impression, "so I gave him the coup de grace."

"My lord, had we not better depart? These English may return at any moment; tomorrow we may come with all the force at our command."

"We will sup first at all events. That soup smells good; it will put a little warmth into our bodies, and it is worth a little risk to have the chance of drying our clothes at this fire."

So they left the body of poor Eadwin where it had fallen, and being now spent with hunger, they poured the soup into basins and ate it greedily.

Suddenly the door was burst open, the room was filled with their foes—uplifted weapons, deadly blows, cries, curses in English and French—in short, such a melee ensued that it passes all our power to describe it. The fire was kicked over the place—blood hissed as it ran over the floor and met the hot embers—the torches were speedily extinguished or converted into weapons—men rolled over and over in deadly strife, seeking where to plant the dagger or knife—they throttled each other, or dashed hostile heads against the floor—they tore the hair or beard as they struck beneath, not with the fist, but the knife—on rolled the strife—the very building shook—till there was a sudden lull, and in a few more minutes it was peace.

A dozen Englishmen stood upright amidst prostrate corpses, many streaming with blood; while many bodies lay on the floor, eight of which were discovered, when the lights were rekindled, to be Normans.

Only one Norman yet lived, and he was wounded—it was Pierre.

The young Breton lay on the ground, grievously wounded in several places, yet not mortally—and fully conscious—when he heard an eager voice inquire in a tone of authority:

"What is the meaning of all this? How did they cross the morass? Are many of our people hurt?"

He looked up; the voice startled him. Well it might—it was to him a voice from the grave.

There, in the doorway, living and well, strong and well-liking, in the glare of torchlight, stood his former companion, Wilfred of Aescendune.

Their eyes met, and they gazed fixedly, yes, and proudly, upon each other; but the glance of Wilfred softened first. He saw before him the only one of his former companions who had ever given him a friendly word, whom misapprehension alone had estranged from him, which he (Wilfred) had refused to remove.

"We meet again, Pierre de Morlaix."

"Thou art not dead, then. How didst thou escape? Who burnt the monastery?"

"Art thou so demented as to ask me? Dost thou think English torches fired an English house of God? Times are changed now, and thou seest me surrounded by the vassals of my father's house, who own no lord but their natural chieftain. But where is Etienne? We have watched your party all day, and know that the young tyrant was their leader. Is he amongst the dead?"

"Look for thyself."

No. Etienne was not amongst the dead. How, then, had he escaped?

"Search the premises—search the woods—stop the paths across the morass—men and dogs, all of you. Better all the rest had escaped: he shall never, never live to be lord of Aescendune."

And Wilfred vanished to give orders out of doors.

An hour had passed away; the dead had been removed, the English to be decently buried—for there was an old church built by Elfwyn of Aescendune, during the Danish wars {xi}, and around it lay the graves of those who had died in troublous times; there English priests were still found to serve at the altar; Norman tyranny did not spare the English Church any more than the English nobility.

But the Norman dead were simply carried to a quagmire of bottomless depth which absorbed the bodies, and furnished a convenient though dreadful grave.

And in this division of the slain, young Eadwin, pierced with four wounds, was found; and the arrows, yet remaining, showed at once that he had not fallen in fair strife.

The search for Etienne, still unsuccessful, was being eagerly pursued, when Wilfred returned, bent on questioning Pierre, and beheld the dead body of Eadwin.

He was deeply moved, for he had loved the poor lad, his foster brother, well, and could not easily restrain his emotion, but so soon as he was master of himself, the desire for vengeance superseded softer emotions, and he ordered the wounded Pierre to be brought before him.

He had no difficulty in learning the truth. Pierre, now upon his mettle, somewhat sorrowfully said that as the young thrall would not answer his lord when bidden, Etienne had endeavoured to compel him.

"Thou hadst, then, no part in it?"

"I gave the coup de grace."

"Then thou hast sealed thine own fate: it is folly to extend mercy to those who never show it."

"I have not asked it of thee—of the associate of murderers and outlaws."

The sun rose clear and bright after that eventful night—the storm was over—its rising beams fell upon a company of archers drawn up in the English encampment—upon a young warrior doomed to die, who stood bravely before them. The gray-haired priest who had prepared him for death—the only favour shown him—bade him a last farewell; the bows twanged, and the same arrows which had transfixed the flesh of Eadwin pierced the heart of Pierre de Morlaix.



CHAPTER XII. THE ENIGMA SOLVED.

We owe our readers some apology for having so long trifled with their patience concerning the fate of Wilfred, and we trust they are somewhat anxious to hear how he escaped the flames on that fatal night when the monastery was burnt.

When good Father Alphege heard that the boy had returned under captivity, for whose safety he was so anxious, he sent at once another messenger to the good Bishop Geoffrey, imploring his aid for the orphan.

But the monastery was already watched and neither letter nor messenger was ever heard of again.

Imagine the good Father's astonishment when the following night he received Wilfred safe and sound from the hands of Hugo, to do penance.

"Wilfred, my dear boy, tell me all. What has become of the letter I entrusted you with?"

"It was taken from me in my sleep. Write another; oh father, let me start again at once!"

"The roads are all beset, my dear child, as I have heard today. I have already sent a messenger, but tremble for his safety."

"What can I do to avenge my mother—my dear mother?"

"Wait, my child, only for a little while; God is too just to let such crime remain unpunished."

"Why was not his arm outstretched to save? Oh, my father, I shall become an infidel if this villain escapes unpunished!"

"Only wait; one day is with Him as a thousand years."

"But I shall not live a thousand years; I must see the day myself."

"Nay, dear child, thou art not thyself; this is wicked. Go into the church and pray for the grace of patience."

"I cannot pray—I must act."

"Go and pray, my son. Come to me again in half an hour; I have inquiries to make which touch thy safety. I would fain know why the baron sent thee here, since he knoweth all; it would seem the last thing he would be likely to do."

The good prior soon found by personal observation that the monastery was watched, and had been so since Wilfred entered it, and saw at once that did he start again the lad would never reach his journey's end, and that suspicion would be thrown upon him and his brethren.

He did not hesitate long; he had no doubt that Wilfred's life was somehow threatened, and resolved to secure his safety. He sent for a certain brother Kenelm, a monk in priestly orders, who had long been entrusted with a delicate duty.

"How are our poor brethren in the woods, my brother?"

"They are faring well; there is no lack of venison, and their corn crops are ripening for harvest. The land, thou knowest, hath been cultivated for many years."

"It is providential that the Normans have never discovered that little Zoar, which may remain unknown until their tyranny be overpast; for surely God will not quite forget this poor people, sinners although we have all been."

"The morass grows wider and deeper every year; the course of the brooks which form it has been quite choked, and their waters but tend to increase the desolation around."

"Couldst thou find thy way there this very night?"

"Surely, if there were need."

"There is great need. The young thane, Wilfred, is in danger—there is some plot against his life. What it is I know not, but our poor house has been watched ever since he has been here. Come to the window and look; I have blown out the light; now look—dost thou not see a man under the shade of the beech, near the entrance gate?"

"Verily I do, father."

"And now come with me (leading him along a passage); look through this window."

"Yes, there is another. Why do they watch?"

"That the young Wilfred may not escape; they think we shall send him off again, as they know I did before."

"How do they know, father?"

"They have read my letter to the bishop."

"Then why have they sent him here? I am quite bewildered."

"That he may be sent again, entrapped, or slain, and failing that, I know not what they will do. But we will outwit them; thou shalt take him this very night to his poor thralls who dwell in the swamp. They will rejoice to see him, and will live or die for him, as seemeth best."

"But since we are watched, how shall we escape?"

"By the river. It is very dark: thou must unmoor the boat and float down the stream for a full mile, without noise of oars, then enter the forest and place the precious boy in safety."

"It shall be done, father."

"And quickly. Here he comes—supper, and then thou must say thy compline on the river: thou wilt go while all the rest are in the chapel, and mayst join us in spirit."

The good prior then went to the church, through the great cloister. The poor lad he loved was praying and weeping.

"Wilfred," said the prior, "dost thou feel better now? Hast thou poured out thy soul before thy Heavenly Father?"

"Better? yes, a little better now, father."

"Come with me to the refectory."

They left the church.

"Now eat a good meal."

"I cannot eat—it chokes me, father."

"Thou must, my dear son; it is a duty, for thou must travel far tonight."

"Thank God."

"But it is not to Oxford, my son; thou wouldst not outlive the night. It is that very journey they want thee to essay."

"Why?"

"That they may slay thee by the way."

"I may have my father's sword, which hangs over his tomb, may I not?"

"Silly boy, what could one do against a score? Nay, thou must go and hide for the present in the forest—thou rememberest 'Elfwyn's Grange'?"

"Where my great grandfather hid from the Danes? Yes, many a time have I gone there to shoot wild fowl, while my poor father was alive."

"And thou knowest the buildings in the midst of the firm ground?"

"Well."

"Thou hast never told thy Norman companions about them?"

"Never! they one and all think the morass a mere desert, a continuous swamp."

"So much the better, my dear son, for more than half the poor folk who have deserted the village are there, and Father Kenelm will take thee to them, for he knoweth the way, ministering to them weekly as he does."

"But why may I not stay here?"

"I dare not keep thee, dear child; I fear some plot against thy life; nay, the morass is the only safe place for thee till we can communicate with the bishop, who has once befriended thee and may do so again."

"Oh father, let it not be long!"

"That is in God's hands; abide patiently and wait thou on the Lord, and He shall make thy path plain. Now eat; I will not say one word more till thou art full."

Poor Wilfred did his best, and ate the last meal he was ever to eat under that fated roof. The good fathers never suspected the real design of their remorseless enemy.

The supper over, beneath those beams which were soon to fall blazing upon their fated inmates, the lad bid a last farewell to the good prior, to whom he had transferred the affection he once felt for his dear parents. He fell on his shoulder, he wept, embraced, and parted. The good prior wept, too. They never met again.

"Take care of the precious lad, Father Kenelm; remember thou hast the hope of Aescendune with thee."

They entered the little "punt" very quietly. The night was warm, but fortunately obscure. They unmoored, and dropped down the stream in perfect silence, listening to the bell as it tolled for compline.

At length they reached the place the prior had indicated. They left the boat, and entered the forest in safety, utterly undiscovered—here, only Father Kenelm's accurate knowledge of the place could have availed them in the darkness.

In three hours they had traversed ten woodland miles, and drew near the quagmires. The path became fearfully intricate, and Wilfred was startled by the marsh fires, while Father Kenelm began to pray for the poor souls—he somehow supposed them to be, or to represent, poor silly wandering souls—the while the night owl sang a dismal chorus to his ditty. They followed a devious winding road—in and out—with much care, the father holding Wilfred's hand all the time, until they emerged and found themselves ascending between two steep banks. It was a narrow valley, through which a brook poured its waters into the desolation beneath.

At the summit they stopped and rested for a few minutes. It was not, as may be imagined, very high; but beneath lay the whole extent of the Dismal Swamp. It was after midnight.

"What can that brightness in the sky portend, my child? There must be some dreadful fire; and, alas! it looks as if in the neighbourhood of Aescendune!"

"I hope it is the castle."

The poor monk was very much alarmed; he feared it might be the monastery, and the reader knows he was right.

Now the heavens were lit up with intense brightness, now it faded again. It was long before they left the summit and the view of the reddened sky.

"May it not be the northern lights?"

"Nay, my son, it is south of us, and they never look quite like this. I fear me mischief is abroad, and shall not be happy till I get me home again tomorrow."

Poor Father Kenelm, the woods were now his sole home.

At length, as the brightness disappeared, they continued along the brook, until they reached a wide extent of flat meadow ground traversed by the stream, separated by low hills from the morass.

In the centre of the valley, if such it may be called, the brook divided, enclosing about an acre of ground, ere its streams met again, hurrying down to the morass. Deep and rapid as it was, its course had been but short; a copious spring burst from the ground not half a mile above, whence streams issuing different ways helped to form the slimy waste which girt in this little island of firm land.

There, in the ground enclosed by the divided stream, was the home once inhabited by the ancestors of our young hero. The monk knocked loudly at the door—no watch was kept—the marsh was their protection.

The dogs began to bark, and one or two which were loose came up, half disposed to make war upon the travellers, but they soon recognised the monk. Lights were seen, the doors opened, two or three sunburnt faces appeared in the doorway.