"Sexwulf, I bring you a guest; look at him—dost thou know him?"

"It is our young lord!"

Late though it was, the whole household was soon in uproar—the welcome was grand—and it was all the good father could do to prevent their arousing the whole village, to hear the joyful news that their young lord—rescued from Norman tyranny, which had even threatened his life—was there, relying on their protection, and that they, esteemed by the world as outlaws, were his chosen guardians. They felt indeed, now, that they were not outlaws, but patriots fighting against successful tyrants—the foes of their country; even as the brave Hereward (so they had heard) was fighting in the Camp of Refuge, amongst the fens of East Anglia.

And for Wilfred, the representative of a house which had ruled them for centuries, the son of their lamented lord, who had died so bravely at Senlac, they would one and all, if necessary, lay down their lives.

On the morrow, at eventide, Father Kenelm returned from Aescendune, horror struck, and brought the news of the burning of the abbey and the lamentable fate of his brethren.

There was not an Englishman whose heart was not moved with indignation and pity, nor one who failed to lay the burden of the deed where our readers have long since, we doubt not, laid it—on the head of Hugo.

Hence those terrible reprisals our pages have recorded—hence no mercy was shown to the merciless; and the war between the baron and his revolted dependants became one of extermination.

Every day brought accessions to their number; they were in communication with similar centres of disaffection in all parts of the midlands; and they confidently hoped for the day when the Normans should be expelled, and England be England again.

So Wilfred regarded his banishment in the forest as a temporary one at the best, and no longer looked for the aid of Normans, lay or ecclesiastical, to avenge his mother's wrongs and his own; he would vindicate them by the strong hand.

He was now eighteen years of age, practised in all manly sports and warlike exercises, braced by daily use to support fatigue in mind and body, and every day rendered him more qualified to be the leader of his own people in the desperate warfare which lay between them and their rights.

He shared their hardships, fared as they did, exposed himself as far as they would permit him to every peril, and was modest enough (unlike his Norman rival) to be guided by the advice of his elders, the wisest of his late father's retainers.

One fault—and one the youthful reader will, we fear, look very lightly upon—was gaining upon him—a deep and deadly hatred to everything Norman. It was even rumoured that, like Hannibal of old, he had vowed an undying hostility to the foes of his country and his house; if so, our pages will show how he kept his word.

In this feeling Father Kenelm, who now ministered wholly to the spiritual necessities of the dwellers in the Dismal Swamp, strove feebly to restrain him; but Wilfred was rapidly outgrowing all restraint, and perhaps the good father, who after all was human, and the sole survivor of a happy and united brotherhood, did not feel very deeply shocked by the hatred manifested to the destroyers of his brethren.

Yet he pleaded for Pierre de Morlaix on the eventful night recorded in our last chapter; but the cruel death of Eadwin at the hands of the invaders rendered his prayers useless. The whole feeling of the little community was with Wilfred in the matter; besides, they wanted no prisoners, and dared not set one free to disclose the secret of their refuge.

But we must resume the thread of our story, for our readers are doubtless profoundly interested in the fate of Etienne, the rival heir, and we must apologise for having kept them so long in suspense.



CHAPTER XIII. "COALS OF FIRE {xii}."

The unhappy youth, whose recklessness and folly had led to the entire destruction of the troop confided to his care, was now their sole survivor.

In that hour, when all was lost, at the close of the deadly struggle in the house, he had crawled through the door, ere the lights were rekindled which had been extinguished in the frenzy of the conflict, and sought refuge in flight: not so much, it must be owned, because he feared death (although youth naturally clings to life), as because he longed to live for vengeance, and to carry the secret of the "Dismal Swamp" to Aescendune.

He was bleeding, bruised, scarcely able to move without pain—all his energy seemed exhausted in the supreme effort which had saved him, at least for the time; but it was again very dark, thick clouds charged with snow once more obscured the moon, and the cover of the trees was before him, which he sought, determined rather to perish in the morass than to become the sport of his triumphant foes.

He had gained the desired shelter, and had paused to rest himself and consider what to do next, when he felt something living come into contact with his legs. He started, as well he might under the circumstances, when he saw to his great relief that it was one of the dogs which had accompanied his party throughout the day, and hope sprang up in his breast. The hound might perhaps lead him back through the morass.

At that moment, the arrival of Wilfred with a large body of fresh enemies took place, and Etienne was yet within hearing when his rival stood in the doorway and cried aloud:

"Etienne, son of Hugo, has been here and escaped; hunt him down, men and dogs; he can hardly have passed the morass; we must not let him live to become a murderer like his father."

The voice sounded like a summons from the dead. Etienne turned pale; then the blood coursed rapidly through his veins, as he saw by the light of the moon, which emerged just then from a cloud, his hated rival, standing in front of the farmhouse—alive, and for the time victorious.

Now all was clear. Wilfred was the cause of the calamities which had fallen upon them, and the leader of the outlaws; and Etienne, who, to do him justice, never suspected the true author of the crime, doubted not that his rival had fired the monastery to conceal his flight.

He felt an intense desire that he might grapple with his young foe in the death struggle. Willingly would he have accepted such a decision between their rival claims; but he was alone, wounded, exhausted, a faithful dog his sole friend. He felt that the day of vengeance must be postponed.

He spoke to the poor hound, and succeeded in making it comprehend that he wanted "to go home." With that canine sagacity which approaches very near to reason, the dog at once sought for the path by which they had entered the morass, found it, and ran forward eagerly. Etienne entered it, trembling with hope, when the dog stopped, growled, and came back to its lord. The steps of many feet were heard approaching.

"The place swarms with foes," muttered the hunter, who had become in his turn the hunted.

A crash in the bush behind, and a huge English mastiff rushed upon Etienne. His Norman sleuth hound threw himself upon the assailant of his master, and a terrific struggle ensued. Etienne did not dare wait to see its conclusion or help his canine protector, for the noise of the conflict was drawing all the English there; but he struggled back to the open, and ran along the inner edge of the wood, hoping to find another track through the morass.

Suddenly he stumbled upon a swift little stream flowing down a bank into the desert of slime. He felt at once that it must rise from the chain of hills behind, and that by following it he might get out of the swamp; it was all too like a mountain current to have its origin in the level, and he determined to follow it.

Besides, if he walked up the stream, he would baffle the English dogs, for water leaves no scent; in short, collecting all his energies, he strode rapidly up the brook.

But his strength was not equal to a sustained effort; the excitement of the night had been too much for him; and after he had traversed about a mile, he sat down to rest on the bank, and fell into a dead faint.

The first beams of the rising sun had illuminated the horizon, the very time at which poor Pierre was led forth to die, when an aged Englishwoman, coming down to draw water at the spring, espied the fainting youth.

She advanced to his side, and seemed moved by compassion as she gazed upon the wounded, bloodstained form.

"How young he is, poor lad. Ought I to help him? Yes, it must be right to do so. How the cry of hounds and men comes up the glen!"

"Wake up, wake up!" she cried, and sprinkled water upon his face.

He rose up as if from a deep sleep.

"Mother, what is it?"

"Come with me; I will give thee shelter."

His senses returned sufficiently for him both to comprehend her meaning and his own danger, and he followed mechanically. Just above, the waters of the stream, dammed up for the moment, had formed a little pond, surrounded by trees, save on one side, where was a little garden of herbs, and in its centre, close by the stream, stood a humble cot.

It was built of timber; posts had been driven at intervals into the ground, willow twigs had been woven in and out, the interstices filled with the clay which was abundant at the edge of the pond—and so a weather-proof structure had been built. There was no chimney, only a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape, above the place for the fire.

Within, the floor was strewn with rushes; there was a table, two or three rough chairs made of willow, a few household implements.

At one extremity a curtain, made of skins of wolf or deer, was drawn across the room, beyond which was a couch, a kind of box filled with rushes and leaves, over which lay a blanket and coverlets, of a softer material than one would have expected to find in a peasant's hut of the period.

Many other little articles seemed to have been destined for a prouder dwelling; but all besides betokened decent poverty. All was clean, and there could be little danger of hunger in the settlement, while the woods were full of game, and their little fields were fruitful with corn.

Into this abode the old dame led her guest.

"Thou art Norman," she said.

"I am the son of the lord of Aescendune. If thou canst aid me to escape my foes, thou shalt name thy own reward."

"Not all the gold thou hast would tempt me to aid thee; but the love of One who died for us both forbids me to give thee up to death. Thou art too young, poor youth, to be answerable for thy father's sins."

A proud speech was on his lips, but prudence prevailed, and the worthy cub of the old wolf determined to wear sheep's clothing till his claws were grown again.

"The saints reward thee," he said, "since no other reward thou wilt have."

He could say no more, but staggered into her hut, his strength quite gone.

Nearer and nearer drew the cry of hounds and men.

"Save me if thou canst," he said.

She took him behind the curtain, made him lie down on the couch, which was her own, and covered him completely over with a coverlet. Then she charged him to lie quiet, whatever happened, and shut the door of her hut.

By and by it burst open, and Wilfred stood in the doorway.

"Mother, hast thou seen any one pass this way? The Normans have been in the hamlet: we have slain all but one, and he, the worst of all, has escaped us."

"Canst thou not spare even one poor life?"

"Nay, it is Etienne, son of the old fiend Hugo; besides, once safe off, he would betray our secret before we are ready for action."

"I cannot help thee in thy chase; thou knowest how I hate and shrink from bloodshed, as did thy sainted mother."

"Yes, but they did not shrink from poisoning her—they whom she would not have harmed to save her own life."

"God will avenge—leave all to Him."

"Nay, mother, we waste time; if thou hast not seen him, we go."

"Hast thou seen my Eadwin? He is generally here with the lark?"

Wilfred's face changed; he stammered out some evasive reply, and dashed out to join the men and hounds, who were quite at fault; they had lost the scent far below, where Etienne entered the brook, and were diligently investigating, one by one, all the tracks that led from the morass.

Etienne had heard all, and his heart smote him. From the language used, the words he had heard, he felt that this old woman must be the foster mother of his rival, and, if so, the mother of that very Eadwin he had so cruelly put to death the previous night; he quite understood Wilfred's evasive reply.

His heart smote him, and he repented of this cruelty, at least: he dreaded the moment when his preserver must learn the truth. Would she then give him up?

What, too, did Wilfred mean by his allusion to poison? Had he any grounds for such suspicion? Poison was not an unknown agent amongst the Normans. The great Duke himself had been suspected (doubtless wrongfully) of removing Conan of Brittany by its means.

But fatigue overcame him, and he slept. And during that sleep symptoms of fever began to show themselves. He began to talk in his dreams—"There goes a fire—avoid it, it is an evil spirit—shoot arrows at it. Make it tell the secret—now we shall know about the swamp. Here is a fiend throttling me—oh, its awful eyes, they blaze like two marsh fires. No, tie him to the wall; he shall tell the truth or die. What are you giving me to drink?—it is blood, blood. You have poisoned me—I burn, burn—my veins are full of boiling lead—my heart a boiling cauldron. See, there are the marsh fiends—they are carrying away Louis and Pierre—their tails are as whips—ah, an arrow through each of their arms will stop them. Where is my armour?—a hunting dress won't stop their darts, or save one from their claws. Oh, father, help me—save me from the goblins."

In this incoherent way he talked for hours, and the old dame shuddered as he confused the real tragedy of the previous night with imaginary terrors. Oh, how awful were his ravings to her, when at last she learned the truth. Yet in those very ravings he showed that remorse was at his heart.

She wept as she sat by his bed—wept over the son he had slain. The details of that tragedy were, however, studiously concealed from her by Wilfred's sedulous care; yet she knew Etienne had been the leader of the hostile troop, in conflict with whom she supposed her Eadwin to have fallen in fair open fight; for she was led to understand he had been slain in the terrific struggle in the house.

"The only son of his mother, and she was a widow."

Father Kenelm came and read to her the story of the widow's son at Nain, from King Alfred's Anglo-Saxon version of the Gospels. Not even to him did she confide the secret, or tell who was separated from the good priest only by a curtain—an instinct told her it was right to tend and save—she would trust nothing else.

But in spite of this resolution the good father discovered it all; for while he read the sweet story of old, he heard a cry in Norman French.

"Keep off the fiend—the hobgoblin—he has got burning arrows—snakes! snakes! there are snakes in the bed!"

"What means this, good mother?"

"Oh, thou wilt not betray him."

"Hast thou a fugitive there? Methinks I know the voice. Can it be the son of the wicked baron?"

"He is not answerable for his father's sin; oh, do not betray him—he is mad with fever."

"Dost thou mean to release him, should he get well? Methinks it were better that he should die."

"With all his sins upon his head? May the saints forbid."

"At least were he but absolved after due contrition, and thou knowest that thou hast little cause to love him."

"His death cannot give me back my boy," and she wept once more.

"Nay, it cannot; but if thou dost save him, it shall be under a solemn pledge never to betray the place of our retreat. I will myself swear him upon the Holy Gospels. But woe to him should our young lord Wilfred discover him; I verily believe he would die the death of St. Edmund {xiii}."

"Canst thou not teach poor Wilfred mercy—thou art his pastor and teacher?"

"He grows fiercer daily, and chafes at all restraint. Remember what he has suffered."

"The greater the merit, could he but forgive. You will keep my secret, father?"

"I will: let me see him."

Father Kenelm went behind the curtain and watched the sufferer. Etienne glared at him with lacklustre eyes, but knew him not, and continued his inarticulate ravings. His forgiving nurse moistened his lips from time to time with water, and by him was a decoction of cooling herbs, with which she assuaged his parching thirst.

"Thou art a true follower of Him who prayed for His murderers," said Father Kenelm. "The Man of Sorrows comfort thee."



CHAPTER XIV. THE GUIDE.

Rarely had a spring occurred so dry as that of 1069. With the beginning of March dry winds set in from the east, no rain fell, and the watercourses shrank to summer proportions.

All that winter Hugo de Malville had mourned in hopeless grief the loss of his boy—his only child; but at length grief deepened into one bitter thirst—a thirst for revenge.

That the Dismal Swamp protected the objects of his hatred from his sword he felt well assured; and had the frost been keen enough to render the marshes penetrable, he would have risked all in a desperate attempt to root out the vermin, as he called the poor natives, from the woods.

But frost alternated with thaw, and snow with rain, and no attempt was likely to be attended with success; so he waited and added compound interest to his thirst for vengeance.

At length set in the dry and fierce winds of which we have spoken, and he felt secure of his prey at last; so preparations were at once made for a grand battle in the marshes.

The keen winds continued, and the scouts reported that the swamp was drier than they had ever seen it before. At length April arrived, and with its earliest days—days of bright sunshine—it was decided to delay no longer, but to explore the marshes with the whole force of the barony, strengthened by recruits from the castles of the neighbouring Norman nobles who willingly lent their aid, and hastened to share the sport dearest of all to the Norman mind.

But one thing was necessary to secure success—a guide, and how to procure one was the riddle which puzzled Hugo, both by day and night.

No Norman could help them; but might not some Englishmen serve, not as willing tools, but under the compulsion of force and the dread of torture?

There were no English in the domains of the baron; all had fled into the forest who were yet alive. There were, it is true, native woodmen in other parts of the wilderness; but they were not vassals of Hugo, and one and all had repeatedly disclaimed knowledge of that part of the forest which was to be explored.

In his perplexity Hugo offered great rewards to anyone who would discover any of the former people of Aescendune and bring them before him.

Leaving Hugo and his friends to concert their murderous plans, we must invite the reader to accompany us once more to freedom's home, the Dismal Swamp.

A council was being held at this selfsame time, which materially assisted the schemes of the baron, although not greatly to his ultimate gratification.

It was held around the fire in the same farmhouse in which poor Eadwin had met his death, and which had now become the headquarters of the outlaws whom Norman tyranny had made.

Wilfred, young although he was, presided—for was he not the representative of the ancient lords of Aescendune, and those gathered around him the descendants of the men whom his fathers had often led to victory?

On his right sat Haga, the oldest retainer of his house, a man who at the beginning of the century had actually fought with Alfgar against the Danes; on his left, Boom, the ancient forester of the Aescendune woods—as moderns would say, "the head keeper."

And there were Sexwulf and Ulf, Tosti and Elfwold, Ernulph and Ordgar, Oslac and Osgood, Wulfsy and Ringulph, Frithgist and Wulfgar—men whose names sounded rough and uncouth in Norman ears, but were familiar enough to the natives.

The whole party having assembled, Wilfred, as a consequence of his rank, spoke first and opened the debate.

"We have all come together tonight, Englishmen and friends, to consider what we shall do in a very grave crisis—the gravest which has yet occurred since we fled to this refuge from the Norman tyrant Hugo—whom may the saints confound. The thrall, Oslac, imperilling his life for our sake, has been to Aescendune, and brings us back certain information that there is a great gathering of men and horse to explore the swamp, for they guess shrewdly that we are hidden here, and they know now who burnt their farms and slew their men in the woods—thus making them afraid, the cowards, to venture therein save in large parties.

"But since the old bear has lost his cub, his thirst for vengeance incites him to stake all upon one grand attempt to penetrate our fastnesses, and the dryness of the season seems to him to make it possible."

"Our pools and sloughs are never quite dry—they are bottomless," said Beorn, "and you might stow away the castle of Aescendune in some of them, and 'twould sink out of sight."

"But it is our object to foil his good intentions towards us: sooner or later we must fight him, and why not now? Haga, my father, thou art the oldest and wisest here present; speak, and we will be guided by thy counsel."

"Let the Norman come," said the sage solemnly; "he shall perish in his pride."

"In what manner shall he die?"

"By the death meet for the sacrilegious destroyer of the priory—by fire—it is God's will, revealed to me in visions of the night."

"Fire? how?" cried several; then one common idea seemed to strike them all.

"The reeds. Once entangled in the marshes, we might fire them all round."

"But how shall we get him to enter the marshes where the dry rushes are thickest?"

"There is a bed of rushes and weeds half a mile across, around the heron's pool, and it is now so dry just there, that it would bear the accursed foe, horses, and armour, could they be enticed to follow the path which traverses it."

"Who shall entice them and prevail?" said Beorn.

"Will any of our men risk their own lives and volunteer as guides to the Normans? They are seeking guides everywhere."

There was a dead silence. At length a man arose—Ordgar, son of Haga.

"I will take my life in my hand to deliver my people from the tyranny of this Norman wolf."

"God bless thee, my son," said his aged sire; "thou art the light of mine eyes, but I can risk thee in thy country's cause and the cause of the House of Aescendune."

"It is a holy cause," said Father Kenelm, who was present: "God's arm is bared for vengeance—the blood of my martyred brethren cries aloud from beneath the altar."

"And thou wilt say a mass for us?"

"It is my duty, since I may not fight with carnal weapons."

"But, Ordgar, how dost thou propose to act?"

"They are scouring the woods daily, in search of some of us poor English, whom they may force by torture to be their guides. I will throw myself in their way."

"They will not harm thee, my son; they are too eager for a guide who knows the paths through the swamp."

"But thou must not appear too willing," said Beorn.

"Trust me for that; I will not promise to serve them till I have at least seen their torture chamber."

"Ordgar, thou dost indeed show a spirit worthy of an Englishman; and while such live, I shall never despair of my country," said the youthful chieftain. "Should God restore me to the halls of my fathers, none shall be more honoured of his lord than thou; and shouldest thou fall, fear not but that English bards will be found to sing thy praises."

A few days later Hugo was scouring the forest like a wolf in search of his prey. His men-at-arms were scattered through the woods, seeking for tracks of men. Huge dogs attended them, who were encouraged to explore every thicket.

They were near the Dismal Swamp.

All at once a dog gave the peculiar whine which indicated that he had found scent, and immediately afterwards started forward, his nose to the ground, followed by two or three others.

The men-at-arms followed, and Hugo amongst his retainers.

Suddenly they broke into open view of the chase—a man was seen running before them for his life.

The dogs gave tongue and followed him so swiftly that it was with difficulty he could escape their fangs by climbing a tree.

It was a poor refuge—dogs and Normans were speedily at the foot.

"Come down, fellow," said Hugo, sternly, "unless thou desirest to be brought down by an arrow."

"Mercy, mercy," cried the fugitive.

"What dost thou fear? If thou art a true man no harm shall befall thee. We are not robbers."

The Englishman, for such he was, descended, and was at once secured and bound to prevent his escape.

"Now, fellow," said Hugo, "who art thou? Whose vassal art thou?"

"My name is Ordgar, son of Haga."

"Haga, formerly a thrall of my estate?"

"The same."

"Where is thy accursed sire?"

"I cannot betray my father."

"This is the very man we want!" said Hugo; "bring him along. The torture will soon help him to find a tongue. Surely the saints have heard our prayers and given him to us."

A quaint idea of sanctity, that of Hugo.

They dragged the intended victim forward through the woods. Once or twice he appeared to make desperate efforts to escape, but we need not say made them in vain.

We must shift the scene to the torture chamber.

Imagine a long dark room, below the level of the ground, underneath the keep; stone flags below, a vaulted ceiling above; dimly lighted by torches fixed in sconces in the wall; a curtain covering a recess; in front, a chair for Hugo and a table for a scribe, with ink horn and parchment.

Around the table were gathered Hugo himself, his guests Raoul de Broc, Tustain de Wylmcote, Ralph de Bearleigh, his seneschal, chamberlain, and other confidential officers of his household, and four strong brawny men-at-arms—sufficient to manage the prisoner with ease.

Ordgar, son of Haga, stood alone at the foot of the table, before all this hostile array.

"Villain," said Hugo (the name only imported serf), "thy name?"

"I have told thee, Ordgar, son of Haga."

"Thou art a vassal of Aescendune?"

"I was."

"And art: my rights over thee cease not."

"I do not acknowledge thee as my lord."

"Thou mayst think better of it anon. Now thou wilt please answer my questions.

"Scribe, take down his replies."

"He will not fill much parchment."

"We shall see.

"Where hast thou been hiding from thy lawful master?"

"I have not been hiding from my lawful lord."

"Fool, dost thou bandy words with me? Answer."

"In the woods, then."

"What woods?"

"The forests around thee."

"Dost thou know the Dismal Swamp?"

"Well."

"Hast thou been hiding there?"

"Yes."

"How many of thy comrades are in hiding at that place?"

"I may not tell thee."

"Behold. Tormentor, remove the curtain."

The curtain was drawn back, and revealed a strange assortment of those implements by which man, worse than the beast of the field, has sinned against his fellow. There were the rack, the brazier with its red-hot pincers, the thumbscrew, and, in short, instruments—happily unknown now—in the greatest variety; all intended to wring the truth from crime, or worse, the self-condemning falsehood from the lips of helpless innocence {xiv}.

"Wilt thou answer?"

"I will not betray the innocent."

"Seize him, tormentors."

'Twas said and done, and after a short and furious struggle, the victim was laid on the rack.

"Turn."

The tormentors, clad in leathern jerkins, hideous with masks to hide their brutal faces, turned the handles which worked pulleys and drew the victim's limbs out of joint.

"Hold—enough—I will confess."

"Release him."

"What dost thou ask me?"

"How many are there in the Dismal Swamp?"

"Maybe a hundred."

"Thou art trifling with me; I see we must put thee on the rack again."

"Nay, thou wouldst force me to deceive thee; there cannot be many more."

"Who is their leader?"

"Haga, son of Ernulph."

"Thy father?"

The victim seemed resolved to say no more.

"Place him on the rack again."

But the fortitude of the captive did not seem equal to the last supreme trial.

"Hold!" he cried, "I will confess all."

He owned that his father Haga was the leader of the outlaws, and being interrogated eagerly by the baron about Etienne, stated that the latter was detained as a prisoner in the Swamp, in case they should need a hostage.

"God be thanked!" said Hugo.

He could yet take that holy name on his murderous lips, and sooth to say he did feel gratitude.

The next step was to persuade Ordgar to guide the Normans through the Dismal Swamp to the English settlement. A fresh application of the torture seemed needed to secure this desirable end, but the victim yielded when the pain was about to be renewed—yielded to the weakness of his own flesh, combined with a promise from the baron that his father should not only be spared, but restored to the little farm he had, formerly occupied at Aescendune, under the last English thane.

In short, the bargain was concluded, and Ordgar, son of Haga, became the promised guide of the foes of his country.



CHAPTER XV. RESTORED TO LIFE.

Day after day Etienne de Malville tossed upon the couch in the hut of the woman whom he had so cruelly bereaved, struggling against the throes of fever. In his ravings he was prone to dwell upon all the scenes of horror he had recently passed through, and yet some Providence, intervening, kept from his lips the one revelation which might have endangered his safety—that he was himself the murderer of the son of his preserver.

Sometimes Father Kenelm visited the hut, and although in his heart he deeply regretted that Etienne had not shared the fate of his companions, yet he was too much a Christian to frustrate the good deed of poor old Hilda, by revealing the secret of his existence.

At length, some weeks after the commencement of his illness, after days of parching thirst and delirious dreams, Etienne woke one morning, conscious, and gazed dreamily about him.

The crisis had passed; he was no longer in danger from the fever, and his senses were clear of the terrible and shadowy impressions which had hung about him like a gigantic nightmare.

"Where am I? Who are you?"

"He is conscious, father," said the old woman. "What does he say?" for Etienne spoke in Norman French.

"Thou hast been in great danger, my son, and this good woman hath saved thee and sheltered thee from thy foes."

"Thanks, good mother."

There was a tone of deep feeling in his voice as he said these words—"but what has passed? I have a confused remembrance of hunting and being hunted, in a midnight forest, and of a deadly combat in a dark chamber, from which I seemed to wake to find myself here."

"Thy destiny has, indeed, been nearly accomplished, and that thou art the survivor of the party with which thou didst invade the Dismal Swamp is owing to this widow woman," said the good father in the patient's own tongue.

Etienne fell back on his pillow and seemed trying to unravel the tangled thoughts which perplexed him. Once more the dame came and brought him a cooling drink. He drank it, thanked her, and fell back with a sigh.

Yes, it all came to him now, as clear as the strong daylight—and with it came remorse. He had cruelly slain young Eadwin, and the mother of the murdered lad—for he knew her—had rescued him from what his conscience told him would have been a deserved fate, at least at the hands of the English.

There are crises in all men's lives—and this was one in the life of Etienne—when they choose good or evil.

And from that time, new impressions had power over him. He lay in deep remorse, knowing that he still owed his life to the forbearance, and more than forbearance, with which he had been treated.

"If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head."

Etienne now felt these coals of fire.

He was not all pride and cruelty. His education had made him what he was, and probably, under the same circumstances, with such a father and the training of a Norman castle, many of my young readers who have detested his arrogance would have been like him, more or less.

"Their lot forbids, nor circumscribes alone, Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines."

But now the generosity which lay hidden deep in his heart was awakened; the holy teachings which, in his childhood he had heard at his mother's knee—a mother who, had she lived, might have influenced his whole conduct—came back to him. There were many pious mothers, after all, in Normandy. Pity they had not better sons.

"Forgive us our trespasses."

The daily ministrations of the poor childless widow, whom he had made childless, were a noble commentary on these words.

"Mother," he said, one day, "forgive me—I have much to be forgiven—I cannot tell thee all."

"Nay, thou needst not; thou art forgiven for the love of Him who has forgiven us all."

For a long time yet he lingered a prisoner on his couch; for fever had so weakened him that he could hardly support his own weight.

But at length convalescence set in, and his strength returned; but he could only take exercise—which was now necessary to his complete recovery—when Father Kenelm was at hand to act as a scout, and warn him to retire in the case of the approach of any Englishman; for although he had adopted the English dress, yet his complexion and manner would have betrayed him to any observer close at hand.

At length came the day of deliverance.

It was a day in early April. The east winds of March had dried the earth, the sun had now some power, and the trees were bursting into leaf in every direction. It was one of those first days of early summer, which are so delicious from their rarity, and seem to render this earth a paradise for the time being.

The convalescent was out of doors, inhaling the sweet breeze, in the immediate proximity of the hut, when the good father appeared.

"My son," he said, "dost thou feel strong enough to travel?"

"I do, indeed, father," said the youth, his heart bounding with delight; "but may I go, and without any ransom?"

"Surely; we have not preserved thy life from love of filthy lucre."

"I feel that father, in my very heart; but hast thou no pledge to demand? Dost thou trust all to my gratitude?"

"Thou wilt never fight against the poor fugitives here, my son?"

"Nor betray the path to their retreat" added Etienne.

"That is already known," said the father.

"Known! then war is at hand."

"It is, and I would remove thee, lest harm should befall thee. Thou wilt travel hence with me at once."

"Before we start I would fain be shriven by thee, for I have grievously sinned, and to whom can I more fitly make my shrift? so that he who has ministered to the body may in turn minister to the soul."

"There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth," said the good monk, greatly moved, "and right gladly will I discharge mine office towards thee."

The hour had come for Etienne to depart. He had bidden farewell to the faithful Hilda. His last words were—"Thou hast lost one son, mother, but found another; if Etienne de Malville lives, thou shalt be recompensed one day."

The two pedestrians left the hut and, keeping close along the border of the marsh, under the shadow of the trees, came at last to the little isthmus which joined the firm ground within the marsh, to a chain of woody hills.

The ground was so covered with vegetation and undergrowth that it was difficult to advance, save by one narrow path; but Etienne saw at once that in this direction the settlement could be assaulted at any time of the year with every chance of success.

The monk must have been aware also that he was betraying the secret of this approach to a Norman; but strangely enough, he did not seem to trouble about it at this juncture.

"Father," said Etienne, "I would fain ask thee one question before we part."

"Speak on, my son."

"I would fain know, father, what murderous hand gave thy abbey to the flames—a deed abhorred by all good men, whether Normans or English."

"Thou dost not know then?"

"Surely not, father."

"I may not tell thee whom all suspect; it is better for thy peace of mind that it should remain a mystery till God solve the riddle."

"Thou mayst not tell how Wilfred escaped either," added Etienne, who in his heart thought that the outlaws had fired the place and released him from his imposed penance.

"On all these points my lips are sealed. Perhaps in God's own time thou wilt learn the truth."

"Then I may not act as a mediator between my father and his fugitive vassals?"

"Not under present circumstances. There is a dark mystery, which God in His mercy hides from thee."

They had now gained a slight elevation, and could see the tops of the trees below them for miles, including a portion of the swamp.

"Father, how full the woods are of smoke: look, it is rolling in great billows over the tree tops. Surely the woods are on fire."

"I have heard that in foreign countries the woods are so dry in summer that they burn easily, and that people caught in the forests have great difficulty in saving their lives; but it is not so here, the reeds and flags of the marshes alone are on fire."

"Methinks I hear the shouts of men who strive for mastery," and as he spoke, the fire of the warrior kindled in his eyes.

"Thou mayst not join them if such be the case; thou wilt keep thy promise, my son."

"Yes," said the tamed tiger cub, with a sigh; "yet I would fain know what my father is doing. Let us go on."

Two more hours of forest travelling carried them far from the sound of the conflict and they gained the outskirts of the forest. Entering some nicely cultivated meadows, they came in sight of a small Norman priory, which Etienne had visited in earlier days, when out on woodland expeditions; for it was miles from Aescendune, and the way lay through the forest.

"Farewell my son, I must leave thee here. They are thy countrymen in yonder cell, and will gladly entertain thee."

"Thy blessing, my father."

"It is thine, my son. Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God, and He will bless thee."

Etienne sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, for he was very tired, and watched the departing figure of Father Kenelm. His eyes were dim, for he felt very much touched, for the time at least.

But he was now restored to life and liberty, and no bird in the sky, no deer on the mountain, felt more blithe and happy than he soon began to feel.

There is an old adage about the Evil One. It is said he became sick and wanted to be a monk, but when he became well—well—Was this the case with Etienne?

Time will show: for the present we leave him blowing the horn suspended at the gate of St. Ouen's priory.



CHAPTER XVI. RETRIBUTION.

"Raro antecedentem scelestum Deseruit pede Poena claudo."

It was midday, and the sun was pouring the full power of his noontide beams on the wilderness of reeds and flags which overspread the southern side of the Dismal Swamp, reposing on the treacherous surface of bog, quagmire, and quicksand.

Signs of life there were none, save when the bittern rose from its nest, amidst the long reeds or sedgy grass, or the moor fowl flew over the surface of the inky water, which here and there collected into pools. The feeble hum of insects filled the air, but all else was peace and solitude.

Save that there was a sign of life on the farther side of the Swamp—a solitary figure half concealed by bushes, stood watching on a promontory of firm land, looking anxiously—from his slight elevation over the surface of the fen.

He was an aged man, who had seen some ninety summers; his long beard descended below the girdle which confined his brown tunic at the waist. It was Haga, the father of Ordgar.

"My eyes are not what they were, and I see no sign as yet. Ah, here comes little Siward!"

A boy of some twelve years approached him very silently, as if some serious business was about to be transacted, of such nature as to subdue boyish loquacity.

"Come hither, Siward, my grandchild, and lend me thine eyes and ears, for mine are now dulled by age. Dost thou hear aught?"

"I hear the bittern boom, and the woodpecker tap, but that is all."

"Sit down by my side, and watch with me; the time is at hand."

"Will my father be with them?"

"He will, my child."

"And he will come home safely to us, when all is over?"

"That is as God wills, dear child; his life belongs to his country. Thou mayst pray for him," he added, as he saw tears rise to the eyes of the boy.

"I do," said the child.

They sat awhile in perfect silence, when at last the boy appeared to listen intently.

"Grandfather," he said, "I hear the sound of many feet."

"Art quite sure?"

"Yes, and now I see men advancing from the shade of yonder thicket of beech."

"And I see them too; go and warn Tosti, Sexwulf, Ulf and Frithgift, and be sure that thou keepest out of the fen thyself."

"Only thou wilt bring father back home with thee?"

"By God's help, my child."

At this moment a numerous and warlike band of Normans emerged from the woods, in full view, and paused on the edge of the Swamp.

"Now they come forth to their doom. The Lord hath delivered them into our hands," said Haga.

Foremost amongst them the old man recognised his son Ordgar; his arms were bound, and a cord attached to the thongs which confined them, held by a man-at-arms.

We will transport ourselves to the other side of the Swamp.

Hugo sat there on his steed, in the full panoply of warlike pride, throbbing with the desire of vengeance, and with the hope of recovering his son—whom he was destined never to see again; for justice, although her pace may seem tardy, seldom fails to overtake evildoers, even in this world; and he who, as men thought, had slain others by fire, was destined to perish by the same avenging element.

But no shadow of coming events was there to disturb his equanimity; all seemed to promise the gratification of his fondest wishes, and he was in the highest spirits.

And now he bade them bring Ordgar forward, and the guide—his feet free, but his arms bound—stood before him.

"Thou hast said that thou knowest the road through the Swamp?"

"I do."

"Lead on, then, and beware of treachery; for if there be any doubt, even a doubt, of thy faith, thou diest."

"Fear not; my faith is pledged—it shall be kept."

Pledged, yes: but to whom?

The Normans failed to see the "double entendre" of this reply. Their claim was but the omnipotence of torture.

The thrall led the way to a spot where the earth bore marks of footsteps; here it was evident men had recently entered the maze which stretched before them.

Hugo pressed forward and took the cord himself.

"Now," he said, "Normans, follow me. Lead on, thrall; remember thy farm at Aescendune, and thy forfeit life."

Onward, infatuated as the Egyptians when they passed between the suspended walls of the Red Sea, the band followed their leader into the maze; the path was narrow, the reeds were tall, and soon they towered above the heads of the rash invaders.

High bulrushes, tall flags; thick, sedgy vegetation beneath; the ground, firm enough below at first, soon became quaking and felt strangely elastic under their feet. The marsh was here of great width, and shortly they had advanced a considerable distance from firm ground, and were in the midst of the Swamp.

And here the path became more and more difficult. Sometimes only one could pass at once; nor could they see distinctly where they were going. The sun, too, which might have guided them as to the direction of their march, was temporarily clouded.

"Dog," said Hugo to the captive guide, "if thou misleadest us thou shalt die."

"A man can die but once."

"Thou art a bold villain," said the baron, raising his sword.

"Slay me, and who will guide thee through the marsh?"

"True; do thy duty and fear nought."

"I will do my duty."

All this passed while they were slowly advancing, and the strange part of it was this, that they did not seem to get to the end of their toil. Little did they suspect that they were wandering in a path which knew no end, save the bottom of the quagmire.

And now the marks of the feet, which had hitherto appeared plain before Hugo as he rode, were seen no more; nor could the baron tell the precise spot when they faded from sight; they had become fainter and fainter, and then had vanished.

"Dog, where are the footmarks? thou art wandering from the road."

"We shall soon find them again."

"Are we nearly over the Swamp?"

"Thou wilt see firm land soon."

The baron grasped the cord tightly.

Onward they wandered, and still naught but rushes and flags, sedges and dried reeds, met their gaze, until a promontory of firm ground—a rock of deep red sandstone—rose from the mire, above their heads—distant, it might be, a bow shot.

The baron uttered a sigh of relief, when his horse stumbled; the poor brute strove to recover his footing, and sank deeper into the treacherous quicksand. Over went the Baron, over his horse's head.

Ordgar snatched at the cord; it escaped Hugo's grasp; the guide was amidst the reeds, and in one moment he had made his escape; the reeds parted, waved again, higher than the head of the fugitive, and the baron saw him no more; only a mocking laugh arose to augment the rage of the baffled tyrant.

But that rage was speedily changed to terror, for, as the baron rose, his feet sank beneath him, and he felt as if some unseen hand had grasped them in the tenacity of the quicksand, just as a faint cloud of smoke rolled by overhead.

Meanwhile the men in the rear were pressing on, and the foremost advanced to help their leader and his struggling steed; but all who did so were soon in the mire in like fashion, sinking deeper with each struggle.

Oh, how awful that sucking, clasping feeling beneath the surface of the earth, that gradual sinking out of sight—a process lasting perhaps for hours. But hours were not given to Baron Hugo; for at this moment the awful cry of "Fire!" "Fire!" was heard on all sides, and a loud mocking shout of laughter from hundreds of unseen enemies, now safe on the firm ground beyond the Swamp, was the answer.

A cloud of thick smoke rolled over the reeds, and cries of distress and anguish arose yet more loudly.

"Death to the incendiary! let him who burnt the monks of St. Wilfred die by fire himself as is meet!"

The latter cry arose from the borders of the Swamp, hidden from sight by thick eddying billows of smoke.

A flashing sheet of flame, then another—clouds of thick smoke rolling above—the crackling of flame, devouring the dry herbage—stifling heat, yet more unendurable each moment—suffocation impending as the air became thicker and denser.

Held by the quicksand, and sinking deeper and deeper—only raised above the ground from the middle of the body; so Hugo awaited his just fate—and felt it just.

"Oh for an hour to repent! oh for a priest! My sins have found me out."

A sudden gust of wind opened a passage through the smoke, and revealed in the lurid light of the flames—Wilfred of Aescendune!

For a moment the baron thought himself dead, and at the judgment seat; then as he saw his supposed victim standing in safety, afar off on the high rock, and pointing out the scene, with awe yet exultation on his youthful face, he grasped, as in a moment, the whole secret of the forces which had been arrayed against him, and tasted an agony bitterer than that of death.

"All is lost," he cried.

His courage now gave way; he proffered fabulous rewards to any who would save him; but none could help; nay, all were in like distress. His brain reeled—the flames approached—nearer—nearer.

It was an awful scene. The marsh was a raging furnace. The exulting cries of the English mingled with the groans of their suffering foes. Pity there was none—the remembrance of the burnt priory had extinguished that sweet virtue.

Ah! who shall tell of the terrible hatred, the thirst of blood, which war—begotten of man's fellest passions—had created in the hearts of the oppressed? Who would not pray for peace on earth, good will towards men {xv}?



CHAPTER XVII. THE ENGLISH HEIR TAKES POSSESSION.

The castle and village of Aescendune lay in deep silence all through this eventful day; it was in early spring, and the air was balmy, the sun bright, the birds sang their sweetest songs, the hedgerows and trees put forth their fresh green buds, and all nature seemed instinct with life.

Only a few gray-headed servitors were left to guard the precincts of the castle, for no attack was apprehended from the marauders of the forest, as the Normans styled the English; and every one who could bear arms had left to swell the final triumph of Hugo.

Noontide came, and found the little band, of some score aged men, intent upon their midday meal. This accomplished, they reclined in various easy positions, around the battlements, or on the greensward without, while some had even penetrated into the forest in their eagerness to hear the first news of the extermination of the English, which none doubted was close at hand.

Towards the evening, one of them, who lay reclining on a mossy bank beneath a spreading beech, on a slight eminence, observed a great smoke rising above the tree tops in the distance.

"Doubtless," thought he, "they are smoking the vermin out, or burning the houses and barns—of which we have heard—within the circle of the Deadly Swamp."

But as the smoke increased more and more, a certain vague feeling of anxiety gained possession of him, and he longed for more accurate means of observation.

"Would I were not so old!

"Oh, young Tristam," he cried, as he observed a Norman boy, son of one of the men-at-arms—a lad of about twelve years of age—"come here!"

"What does all that smoke mean?" cried the lad; "are they burning the encampment of the rebels, or has the forest caught fire? it is dry enough."

"No doubt they are burning the huts of those rebels and outlaws in the Swamp; but, Tristam, thou art young; canst thou not run over through the woods? The hill, whereon the pine lately struck by lightning stands, will command a distant view of the Swamp; then return, and tell me all."

The boy started like a greyhound, and ran through the woods with eagerness.

"A fine stripling, that; the saints grant his arms may turn out as good as his legs," growled out old Raoul; and so he waited with such patience as he could command.

An hour passed, and the old man was dozing, when the boy returned.

"Wake up, old man," he said, "I bring news."

"News—what news? Are they all burnt—slain—captives?"

"I know not; only the Dismal Swamp is a mass of flame, and all the reeds and flags are burning merrily; 'tis such a bonfire!"

"I believe the lad would clap his hands at a bonfire, if his own grandmother were burning therein as a witch. How dost thou know whether this is for us or against us?"

"How can I tell?" said the lad, more seriously.

"Perchance our people had not all crossed, and the English fired it to secure their own safety. But how could they have foreseen our expedition?"

His anxiety was not of long duration, for an object was seen emerging from the shadow of the woods, and making by the base of the little hill towards Aescendune.

"What cheer?" cried the old man, "hither!"

And as he spoke the stranger turned his head, hearing the familiar sounds, and ascended the hill slowly, and with pain.

He presented a dismal object; his hair and beard had been scorched in some intense fire, and his clothes blackened and burnt.

The two Normans, old man and boy, stood up aghast.

"What! is it thou, Owen of Bayeux?"

"I was that man a few hours agone. I doubt what I am now."

"What hast thou suffered, then? Where are the baron and his men?"

"Burnt in the Dismal Swamp?"

"Burnt?"

"Yes, burnt; I speak good French do I not?"

"Owen, Owen," cried the old Raoul, "do not mistake thy friends for foes! tell us what dreadful event has happened, to disturb thy reason."

"Would it were but disturbed! Oh that I should have lived to see this day!"

"Tell us," cried young Tristam, "tell us, Owen."

"A fate was on us, as on the Egyptians of old; only they perished by water, we by fire."

"But how?"

"Ordgar the guide, whom we thought we had secured so opportunely, led us into the marshes and left us therein; and while we were there, the English fired the reeds and bulrushes on all sides."

"And the baron?"

"He and all have perished; I only have escaped to tell thee. Where are the rest who were left behind?"

"Here they are," cried Tristam, as a group of old warriors approached.

"Come, Roger, Jocelyn, Jolliffe—come hear the news," cried the boy. "Oh, come and hear them; can they be true? All burnt? all dead?"

The horror-struck Normans soon learnt the fatal truth from Owen of Bayeux, and all their stoical fortitude was shaken.

"I was one of the last on the track, and saved only by a mere chance, or the grace of St. Owen, my patron. I had dropped my quiver of arrows, and had gone back a few steps to fetch it; they brought me to the edge of the reedy marsh, and I was just returning, having found the quiver, when I heard a cry, followed by echoes as from a chain of sentinels all round the marsh—'Fire the reeds!' I ran back to the main land, climbed a tree which stood handy, and saw the marsh burst into fire in a hundred spots. It was lighted all round, while our men were in the midst. A chain of enemies surrounded it. I did my best to warn our lord or to die with him. I penetrated the marsh a little distance, when the flames beat me back—man can't fight fire."

"Let us go to the castle, take what we can carry, and fly," said Raoul; "they will be here soon, if they have destroyed our men; and there will be no safety nearer than Warwick for us."

"Can we abandon our post?" asked one.

"Not till we are sure all is lost," said another.

"Tristam, thou must remain here and watch, and warn us if any approach."

"But how long shall I stay?" sobbed the alarmed boy.

"Nay, he is too young," cried the fugitive from the marsh; "besides, it is needless. I know they are all coming upon us—they are thousands strong instead of hundreds, as that liar, the guide, stated. We must fly ourselves, for the time, and bid the monks, the women, and children to fly also."

"Shall we burn the castle, lest it fall into their hands as a stronghold?"

"Nay, that were to give up all; we shall return thither again, and that soon; leave it open for them. The Norman lion will prove more than a match for the English wolf in the long run."

"Onward, then—home—home."

And the dispirited men returned to the castle.

It was manifestly useless to attempt to defend the place; all that could be done was to save their lives, and such "portable property" as could be removed on the instant.

So the old men only returned to warn their astonished comrades, and then gathering such household goods as they most valued, they loaded the horses and oxen which remained, and journeyed to bear the news to Warwick.

But before they went, Tristam was sent to warn the prior and his confreres at the priory of St. Denys that danger was at hand.

"I care not," said that valiant prior of the Church Militant, "though as many Englishmen were in the woods as leaves on the trees; they shall be excommunicated if they interfere with us; our weapons are not carnal."

So the Norman Prior and his monks shut their gates and remained, while through the forest road the men-at-arms escorted all the women and children of the village, the interlopers who had taken the place of the banished English, towards the town of Warwick, and its famous castle, where Henry de Beauchamp had recently been appointed governor by the Conqueror, the first Norman Earl of Warwick, and the ancestor of a famous line of warriors. We have already met his countess at Aescendune, on the occasion of the dedication of the new priory.

The Normans had all left the castle and village before sunset, leaving the gates open and the drawbridge down, as they expressly said that the English might be under no temptation to devastate a place which must soon be in their hands again.

The castle lay empty and deserted for an hour or two; the cattle, too many to be removed, began to low and bleat because they missed their customary attention; only in the Priory of St. Denys did things go on as usual; there the bells rang out for vespers and compline, and the foreign brethren went on their way as if the events of the day had no importance for them.

It was already nightfall, when the forests gave up hundreds of armed men from their dark shade, who poured down like a torrent upon Aescendune, and directed their course towards the castle, where they were somewhat astonished to find the drawbridge down, the gates open.

At first they paused as if they feared treachery, but Wilfred stepped forward and stood in the gateway.

Turning round he addressed the multitude.

"Men of Aescendune, bear me witness that, in the name of my fathers and ancestors, I, their heir, take possession of mine inheritance."

A loud burst of cheers greeted these words, and the English, following their young lord into the castle, found it utterly deserted.

No words can describe the glee with which they paraded the battlements, and flung out the ancient banner of the house of Aescendune to the winds, from the summit of the keep, after which they penetrated chamber after chamber, with almost childish curiosity, so new was the idea of such a building to their imaginations.

But it was with sensations of chilling horror that they explored its dungeons beneath the very foundations of the towers. Some were cells for solitary confinement, of the shape of a tomb and not much larger, the stone doors of which shut with a gloomy solemn sound—the knell of hope to the captive.

And then they came to the torture chamber, of which they had already heard from Ordgar, son of Haga, and saw the seat of judgment, so often occupied by him who had now passed to his dread account; they beheld the rack, the brazier, the thumbscrew, and shuddered.

"I am sick," said the English heir; "take away these accursed things; burn what will burn, and throw the rest in the river; should our grandchildren find them, they may well ask what they were made for."

Meanwhile the monks at the new priory were calmly awaiting their fate with a courage worthy of a better cause. They heard the joyful shouts of the English as they took possession of the castle, without flinching; they rang their bells loudly and defiantly, for the compline service at the third hour of the night (9 P.M.) This last act of audacity was too much; the natives surrounded the new priory, beat at its doors, rang the bell at the gate, blew their horns, and made a noise which baffles description, while they proceeded to batter down the gates.

But not until the service was concluded, when the gate only hung by one hinge, did the prior appear.

"Who are ye," he cried, "who molest the house of God, and those who serve Him within?"

"A pious fox"—"a holy fox"—"smoke them out"—"set the place on fire"—"let them taste the fate which befell better men on this spot!"

"In whose name," said the undismayed prior, "do ye summon me?"

"In the name of the descendant of him who first founded this priory—of Wilfred, thane of Aescendune."

"Ye mock us; he is dead."

"Nay, he lives," said a voice, and our youthful hero appeared on the scene, and addressed the astonished monk.

"Prior, go forth from the house thou and thy brethren have usurped, and make way for the true owners. By my side stands the sole survivor of the brethren whom Hugo de Malville slaughtered, Father Kenelm, a Benedictine like thyself. Admit him; he will tell thee all."

"Since it may be no better, he shall come in. If I open the gates for him, ye will not take advantage?"

"Stand back," cried Wilfred, "let the holy monk enter alone."

And, shortly after, Father Kenelm stood in the chapter house, and explained all to the astonished Norman brethren. He told the story of the destruction of their predecessors, and pointed out the danger of resisting the now triumphant English, who felt themselves the avengers of their slaughtered ministers and friends, the former monks of St. Wilfred.

"It is well," said the other; "we will go forth; thou speakest with justice, as brother to brother, and whatever befall thy companions, this shall be counted in thy favour if I have a tongue to speak."

So the Norman prior and his monks took their way unharmed to the nearest house of their order.

It was night and dark clouds of smoke rolled heavenward, blotting out the fair stars from sight. Silence dread and awful reigned over the Dismal Swamp, the scene of strife and suffering; the very beasts fled the spot, nor could the birds of night linger in the heated air.

But at Aescendune all was tumult and joy. The English had advanced against an undefended stronghold, and Wilfred was at last, as his fathers had been, Lord of Aescendune.

There was a banquet that night in the castle hall. In the old days of Roman triumphs, a man was placed behind the seat of the conquering general as he sat in the intoxication of success, and amidst the adulation of the multitude ever and anon whispered— "Memento to moriturum."

So also there was an unseen attendant behind the chair of Wilfred. In vain he strove to drive it away; the future would thrust itself upon him.

He had slaked his vengeance to the uttermost and had no remorse: he had avenged father, mother—the spiritual guides of his youth; still he had once heard, even from them—"Vengeance is mine: I will repay saith the Lord."

"Sing, bards," he cried out; "has no minstrel a new strain?"

They exerted themselves to the utmost; and Wilfred, determined to rise to the occasion, threw off his sadness, ceased to speculate as to the chances of the insurrection {xvi}; that night, at least, he would give to joy—he would encourage his people who loved him so faithfully by rejoicing with them.

So the song and the banquet lasted until the midnight hour, and the castle of Hugo echoed the old forgotten songs of the glories of Anglo-Saxon England.



CHAPTER XVIII. AT THE ABBEY OF ABINGDON.

Upon the banks of the Isis, about eight miles above its junction with the Tame, stood the ancient town of Abingdon, which had grown up around the famous monastic foundation of Ina, King of Wessex {xvii}.

The river divides, at this point, into three branches, encircling two islands {xviii}; partly on the southern bank, and partly on the nearest of these islands, stood the mighty Abbey, one of the largest and most renowned of the Benedictine houses of England.

And on the other island the Conqueror himself had built a country seat whither he often retired, as convenient headquarters, whence to enjoy the pleasures of the chase in the vale of White Horse, famous in the annals of the Anglo-Saxon race for Alfred's great victory over the Danes.

Few, alas, of the old English inhabitants lingered in the town, save as bondsmen; few of the old English brethren, save as drudges.

For had they not alike incurred the wrath of the victor? Had not the chief vassals of the abbey led their men forth to fight under the hapless Harold?—nevermore, alas! to return—and had not the monks blessed their banner and sanctified their patriotic zeal?

And since, on the one hand, William claimed to be the lawful sovereign, and, on the other, the Pope had blessed the invaders, it was clear that the Godrics and Thurkills who had committed their cause to God before the wonder-working black cross of St. Mary's Altar, were but rebels, and that the monks who had blessed them were schismatics.

Hence the Normans in their hour of victory had cleared out laymen and monks alike, root and branch, and the French tongue had superseded the good old Anglo-Saxon dialect in the district.

It was a fine May evening, and the country was lovely in the foliage of early summer.

A boat was descending the Isis, rowed by six stout rowers; it was evidently from Oxenford, for the men bore the badges of Robert D'Oyly, the Norman lord of that city, who had just built the tower which yet stands, gray and old, beside the mound raised on Isis banks by Ethelfleda, lady of Mercia, daughter of the great Alfred, and sister of Edward the Elder.

In the stern of the boat sat Etienne de Malville.

He had journeyed first to Warwick, where he met the fugitives from Aescendune, and heard their story; burning with revenge, he had sought the aid of Henry de Beauchamp, the Norman governor of the city; but that worthy, seeing the whole countryside in rebellion, bade Etienne repair to the king for further aid, while he himself shut his gates, provisioned his castle, and promised to hold out against the whole force of the Midlands, until the royal banner came to scatter the rebels, like chaff before the winds.

Then Etienne repaired to Oxenford, where he was the guest of the new governor, Robert D'Oyly, for the night, who sent him on by boat to meet the king at Abingdon, whither William was daily expected to arrive to keep Ascensiontide, for he was still observant of such duties.

The servitors, seeing a boat arrive thus manned, were sensible at once it must contain a traveller or pilgrim of some importance— probably the latter; for, as we have already hinted, they had a wonder-working relic, in the shape of a cross, said to have been given to the abbey by the Empress Helena, and to contain a fragment of the true cross itself.

True, it had failed to prosper the poor English, who knelt before it, ere they went to die at Senlac; but of course that was because the Pope was against them, and had suspended the flow of spiritual benediction.

At least, so said the Normans, and they extolled the Black Cross as much as their predecessors.

"Pax vobiscum, domine," said the chamberlain, who happened to be at the quay; "thou art come, doubtless, to bewail thy sins before the cross of St. Mary's Abbey?"

"When my leisure permits, reverendissime pater; at present I seek an immediate audience of the abbot, for whom I bear sad news."

"He is riding to meet the king. Listen, dost thou not hear the trumpets?—that blast tells of their return together."

"Wilt thou grant me a chamber, that I may don meet apparel for the presence?"

"It is my duty; but of thy grace—tell me whom I entertain."

"The Lord of Aescendune, and patron of your branch house there."

The chamberlain bowed low, and turned to lead his guest within the precincts. The rowers cried "largesse," and the young noble threw them a handful of coin.

Soon Etienne was alone in a comfortable cell, and was attiring his person, a duty a Norman seldom neglected; nor did he despise the luxury of a bath, to the scorn of the un-laving natives. The Norman was the gentleman of the period, alike in etiquette, attire, and food.

And likewise, some of the most beautiful of the animal creation are the fiercest carnivora.

The abbot had put off his riding attire; he had clothed his feet in dainty slippers instead of sandals, and had thrown a soft robe around his monastic garb—contrasting strongly with the stern attire prescribed by St. Benedict, and he was about to descend to the hall, when the chamberlain in person told him of the arrival of Etienne.

"Bid him share our poor meal; we will hear no bad news till we have broken our fast; they sit ill on an empty stomach."

The chamberlain retired.

And there at the guest table in the refectory sat Etienne, and marvelled to see how well the ascetics fared. Yet there was refinement in their dishes; and there was little or no excess; they drank the light wines of France, not the heavier ale and mead of their predecessors.

The Latin grace said, they fell to. The joints of meat were passed round, the game, the fish, and each used his fingers in the place of forks, and then washed them in the finger glasses, which had some purpose then to serve, ere they waved them in the air, and then wiped them on delicate napkins.

The meal over, the abbot retired to his chamber, a pleasant room, overlooking the river, and there he took his seat in a cosy chair near the Gothic window, and sent for the visitor.

Etienne appeared; bent with the grace of youth, kissed the abbot's hand, and then standing before him, with all due modesty, waited to be addressed.

Such etiquette was exacted of those who had not yet won their spurs.

The abbot gave him a short benediction, a brief "Dens te custodiat fili," and quickly added, "I am told thou hast news for me of our little patrimony at Aescendune."

"The wolves have ravaged it, father; our own pious brethren are ejected; English swine root in its precincts."

The abbot coloured.

"Who has dared to do this impiety?" he thundered.

"The English rebels and outlaws, who have long lain hidden in the woods, led by the son of the rebel lord who fell at Senlac."

"The brethren—are they safe?"

"They are on their journey hither; the saints have protected them—no thanks to the English."

"And how dared the stripling thou namest to do such deeds; where was thy father, the Baron?"

"He was foully slain in an ambush:" and Etienne, who strove to keep cool, could not restrain a strange quivering of the lips.

"Come, tell me all, my son; God comfort thee."

Etienne began his tale, and the reader will easily guess that Wilfred's character fared very badly at his hands—that without any wilful falsehood, of which indeed this proud young Norman was incapable, so distorted a version of the facts known to our readers was presented, that the abbot shuddered at the daring bloodthirstiness and impiety of one so young as this English lad.

"It is enough—thou shalt have audience with the king at once. I can obtain it for thee; God's justice shall not ever sleep, and William is His chosen instrument. Hark!"

The compline bell began to ring.

"William attends the service tonight. I will crave an audience for thee; meanwhile, compose thy thoughts for God's holy house. Come, my son, this is the way to the chapel."

If the reader has visited the old colleges in Oxford or Cambridge, he will easily conceive a fair idea of the general appearance of the abbey of Abingdon.

There were the same quadrangles (vulgarly called "quads"), the same cloisters, open to the air, but sheltered from sun and rain; which find their fairest modern example, perhaps, in Magdalene College, Oxen. The cells of the monks resembled in size and position the rooms of the undergraduates at the olden colleges, although they were far less luxuriously furnished.

Nor was the element of learning wanting. The Benedictines were indeed the scholars of Europe, and some hundred boys were educated, free of cost, at Abingdon—the cloisters in summer serving as their classrooms. And let me tell my schoolboy readers, the fare and the discipline were alike very hard.

But the chapel in great abbeys—like the one we are writing about—resembled a cathedral rather than a college chapel. And he who has the general plan of a cathedral in his mind can easily imagine the abbey church of St. Mary's at Abingdon.

The choir was devoted to the monks alone; the nave and aisles apportioned to the laity; the side chapels contained altars dedicated to special saints, and occasional services.

Such was the building into which Etienne de Malville entered, not without religious awe, as the pealing organ—then recently introduced by the Normans—rolled its volume of sound through the vaulted aisles.

The monks were all in the choir, which was lighted by torches and tapers. In the nave a few laity of the town were scattered—here a knight or soldier, there a mechanic.

Suddenly, as Etienne took his place, the tread of many armed heels broke the silence, and penetrated up the aisle.

The sound ceased; those who caused it were already in their chosen places, and the monks had begun the Psalms, when Etienne heard a peculiarly stern and deep voice near at hand taking up the sacred words of Israel's royal singer, with which the worshipper seemed familiar.

Then, for the first time, he perceived that the Conqueror—the mightiest of earth's warriors—was he from whom the voice proceeded, kneeling without state in the midst of his subjects, lords and vassals, to join in the late evening service of the church {xix}.



CHAPTER XIX. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE CONQUEROR.

The mighty Conqueror of England was the central figure of the age in which he lived—the greatest soldier of an age of soldiers, and not less statesman than warrior.

Born to a life of warfare, the Conquest had been but the culminating point of a career spent in the tented field—but on that one event he staked his all.

For had he been vanquished at Senlac there was no hope of flight; the English commanded the sea, while his suzerain of France, ever on the watch to regain those Norman dominions which Rollo had won, would have taken instant advantage of the loss of its military leaders to re-annex Normandy to the French crown, and must have succeeded.

Had William fallen in England the Norman name and glory would have perished at Hastings.

Doubtless, he felt how great was the stake he had placed at the hazard of the die, and having won it, he used it as his own.

Yet he was not all of stone. The Anglo-Saxon chronicler says of him—"He was mild to those good men who loved God, although stern beyond measure to those who resisted his will."

Hence the power which men like Lanfranc or Anselm had over him; and it must be added that his life was exemplary as a private individual, his honour unsullied, his purity unstained.

Stern was the race of which he was the head and the ruling spirit. Well does the old chronicler, Henry of Huntingdon, say:

"God had chosen the Normans to humble the English nation, because He perceived that they were more fierce than any other people."

And we modern English must remember that we are the descendants of old English and Normans combined. They came to "high mettle" the blood of our race, and when the conquerors and the conquered were moulded into one people, the result was the Englishmen who won Crecy and Agincourt against overwhelming odds, whose very name was a terror to continental soldiery, as Froissart abundantly testifies.

Grieve as we may over the tyranny and wrong of the Conquest, England would never have been so great without it as she afterwards became.

Etienne knelt in the abbey chapel until the last worshippers had gone out, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gentle voice said:

"The King awaits thee, my son, in the abbot's audience chamber."

In spite of his boldness, Etienne felt a strange tremor as he passed through the cloisters and approached the dreaded monarch.

But he himself belonged to the same stern race, and when the folding doors opened, and he saw the King seated in the abbot's chair, he had perfectly recovered his composure. With winning grace he bent the knee before his liege, and gazed into that face whose frown was death.

But it was not frowning now; the expression was almost paternal, for the Conqueror loved a gallant youth.

"Rise up, my son," he said; "the holy father here tells me you bear stirring news."

"My liege, he hath spoken rightly. I have to tell of rebellion and sacrilege; our English vassals have risen against us, and my brave father has fallen by their hands; our castle is in their holding, and they have driven the brethren of St. Benedict homeless from their monastery."

"And who has dared this deed?"

"Wilfred, son of the rebel who fell at Senlac."

"Wilfred of Aescendune! I remember the stripling when he sought his father's corpse on the battlefield, but had heard that he had lost his life in the fire which consumed the monastery."

"Nay, sire, he had fled to the rebels, and we doubt not now that he and the outlaws, with whom he found a home, fired the monastery, themselves, to cover his flight."

"Tell me, then, what could have driven him to so violent a course, and tell me truly; for some cause there must have been."

It must be remembered that, at this period, William had not given up all hope of reconciling the English to his rule.

"I know no cause, sire, save—"

"Save what?" said he sternly, for Etienne hesitated.

"My liege, the lad, whom your royal will made the heir to the lands my father had won by his services on the field of battle, never lost his sympathy with the rebel rout around, or all had perhaps been well; he struck me in defence of a churl whom I found stealing game, and I challenged him to fight."

"And did he shirk the contest? I should not have thought it of him."

"He ran away, sire, and was brought back; was sent to the monastery by my father for a time of penance as a punishment; the same night the building was burnt by the outlaws, as we have every reason to think by his connivance, since he joined them and became their head, while we all thought him dead."

"And how didst thou learn he yet lived?"

"By his actions; the outlaws under his command burnt our farms, slew our men in the woods, and not our common men only, whose loss might better be borne, but they murdered a noble youth, my fellow page, entrusted to my father's care, Louis de Marmontier; and finally, by the help of a false guide, they entrapped my father and his retainers into a marsh, which they set on fire, and all perished."

Etienne spoke these words with deep emotion, but still firmly and distinctly.

"Fear not, my son, thy father's death shall be avenged, or my sword has lost its power. Weep not for the dead—women weep, men avenge wrongs on the wrongdoer; but tell me, art thou certain of these facts? didst thou or any one else see this Wilfred at the head of the outlaws?"

"My liege, I saw him myself; I penetrated their fastnesses in the forest, and but narrowly escaped with life."

"And saw Wilfred of Aescendune?"

"Distinctly, my liege, almost face to face, in command of the rebels."

"And then, what happened after the death of thy father?"

"They issued from the woods, seized the castle—the few defenders left had fled to Warwick—and then summoned the whole neighbourhood to arms. The bale fires were blazing on every hill. The Count of Warwick bid me tell you, my liege, that he will hold his castle till aid arrives, but that he is powerless to check the wave of insurrection which is spreading over the country far and wide."

"It is well; our banner shall be unfurled and these English shall feel the lion's wrath, which they have provoked. Tomorrow is Ascension Day—the truce of God—on Friday we march. Meanwhile I commend thee to the abbot's hospitality; he will bring thee to the banquet tomorrow after the High Mass. Remember, a true warrior should be as devout in church as fearless in the field."

Etienne left the presence, assured that the death of his father would be speedily avenged, and slept more soundly that night than he had since the fatal fire in the marshes. He loved his father, and it must be remembered that he knew not that father's crimes. Not for one moment did he suspect that he had been concerned in the burning of the monastery, nor did he dream that there had been aught in the death of the Lady of Aescendune save the hand of nature.

The one absorbing passion of his life at this moment was hatred of his successful rival—not so much as his rival, but as the murderer of his father.

All the Norman inhabitants of the neighbourhood crowded the abbey church on the morrow, and were present at the Mass of the day; the poor English were there in small numbers; they could not worship devoutly in company with their oppressors, but frequented little village sanctuaries, too poverty stricken to invite Norman cupidity, where, on that very account, the poor clerics of English race might still minister to their scattered flocks, and preach to them in the language Alfred had dignified by his writings, but which the Normans compared to the "grunting of swine."

And the service in the church over, how grand was the company which met in the banqueting hall of the palace on the island!

The Conqueror sat at the head of the board; on his right hand the Count d'Harcourt, head of an old Norman family, which still retained many traces of its Danish descent, and was as little French-like as Normans of that date could be; De le Pole, progenitor of a fated house, well-known in English history; De la Vere, the ancestor of future Earls of Oxford; Arundel, who bequeathed his name to a town on the Sussex coast, where his descendants yet flourish; Clyfford, unknowing of the fate which awaited his descendants in days of roseate hue; FitzMaurice, a name to become renowned in Irish story; Gascoyne, ancestor of a judge whose daring justice should immortalise his name; Hastings, whose descendant fell the victim of the Boar of Gloucester in later days; Maltravers, whose name was destined to be defiled at Berkeley Castle in Plantagenet times; Peverel, a name now familiar through the magic pen of Scott; Talbot, whose progeny, in times when the Normans' children had become the English of the English, burnt the ill-fated "Maid" at Rouen {xx}.

There was a bishop present who blessed the meats, but Etienne could have spared the presence of Geoffrey of Coutances, whom he knew as the friend of Wilfred, and the author of many inconvenient (and, as Etienne thought, impertinent) inquiries about that young unfortunate, after the burning of the old priory.

Who shall describe the splendour of that feast? We will not attempt it, nor will we try to analyse the feelings of the country youth so suddenly introduced into so brilliant an assembly.

But amidst the intoxication of the scene his mind continually wandered to the sombre forests, the blackened marsh, the Dismal Swamp, and his desolated home; and he would almost have given his very soul to stand face to face, foot to foot, with his youthful rival, sword in hand, with none to interfere between them, and so to end the long suspense.

While some such dream was floating before his imagination, and its details were painted vivid as life upon the retina of the mind, a quiet voice, but one not without some authority, whispered in his ears:

"My son, I would fain ask thee of a youth in whom I am somewhat interested, and who is, I am told, yet alive, risen, as it were, from the dead—Wilfred of Aescendune."

Etienne's face would have made a fine study for a painter, as he encountered the gaze of Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances.

The bishop drew the youth gently into a deep embrasure, where a curtain before the opening veiled a window seat, for the feast was now over, and the guests were mingling in general conversation.

"Father," said Etienne "am I, whom he has made an orphan, a fit witness?"

"My son," said Geoffrey, "I respect an orphan's feelings, yet in justice to the lad whom, as thou sayest, I once befriended, I must ask a few questions. He appeared to me naturally affectionate and ingenuous—one who would love those who treated him well, but who would grievously resent scorn and contempt; tell me honestly, didst thou receive him as a brother, as thou wert bound to do, considering the alliance between thy father and his mother, or didst thou regard him simply as thy rival?"

Etienne hesitated.

"My son, thou cravest knighthood; the true knight is bound to speak the truth."

"I own, father, that I felt him my rival."

"And never thought of him as a brother?"

"Never."

"Then, naturally, this led to injurious words and contemptuous deeds?"

"I cannot deny it; nor do I now regret it, knowing what he is."

"Perchance, my son, thou hast had much to do with making him what he is. One more thing: of course Wilfred would naturally sympathise with the old retainers of his father. Tell me, didst thou ever ill-use them in his sight?"

"I may have done so sometimes. But, my lord, you, who at the head of an army, recently sanctioned the mutilation of the rebels in Dorsetshire—"

"My child, peace and war are different things, and in the latter, men are compelled to do that, from which in days of peace they would shrink, only that timely severity may prevent further bloodshed, and so save many Christian lives. But I am speaking of what thou didst to thine own father's vassals in time of peace—didst thou ill-treat them before thy English brother?"

"I may have been sharp sometimes, and used the ashen twig freely."

"Only the ashen twig? My son, tell me all the story about the 'young poaching churl' who was the cause of such deadly enmity between you."

Etienne told it with reluctance.

"Pray was the lad in any manner dear to Wilfred?"

"He was his foster brother," said Etienne, covering his face as conscience smote him, for he remembered the death of Eadwin, and the way in which the mother of the murdered boy had returned good for evil.

"Then, my son, thou canst not acquit thyself of blame."

"But even if I were in fault so far, father, the terrible events which have occurred since do not lie at my door—the burning of the monastery, the death of my poor father."

"Only so far as this, that all might have been prevented hadst thou received Wilfred as a brother, for thou didst drive him to the woods—according to thine own account. But depend upon it, there is more behind. A brave youth like Wilfred would not have fled simply for fear of the combat, nor would one who loved his own people, as your story proves, have connived at the burning of an English monastery—monks and all. Nay, my son, the mystery is not solved yet; in God's own time it will be, and depend upon it, there will be much to forgive on both sides. Think of this when thou repeatest thy paternoster tonight; for the present we will close this conference."



CHAPTER XX. THE MESSENGER FROM THE CAMP OF REFUGE.

A fortnight only had passed since the scenes described in our last chapter, and we must again take our readers to Aescendune.

It was the hour of the evening meal in the castle hall where so lately Hugo sat in his pride, and in his place sat his youthful rival, Wilfred.

Scarcely of age, the vicissitudes of his life had made a man of him before his time, and a stranger would have credited him with many more years than he really possessed. His face was bronzed with the sun, and his features had assumed all the appearance of early manhood, while there was a gravity in his expression befitting a born leader of men, such as his warlike grandfather, Alfgar, had been in the old Danish wars sixty years earlier.

The accustomed features of an English feast, as distinct from a Norman banquet, have been dwelt upon too often in these Chronicles to need recapitulation here, and we shall only beg our readers to suppose the eating over, the wine and mead handed round, and the business of the evening begun.

The hall was crowded; all the ancient vassals of the house of Aescendune, who yet survived, were present, and many new faces. By the side of Wilfred sat a distinguished guest, an East Anglian, to whom all present paid much attention.

The occasion was one of much gravity; only that evening messengers had arrived, bringing the serious announcement that William the mighty Conqueror, with a force said to be numerous as the leaves of the trees, was at hand, and the gathering had been assembled to discuss the measures expedient in the common danger.

There was deep silence; the summer twilight alone illumined the grave faces of the English guests and vassals of Aescendune, as Wilfred arose to address them.

"Englishmen and brethren," he began, "we have not invited you all to share our evening meal on an occasion of idle ceremony—many of you have heard the news I have to tell, and more will anticipate them. The usurper, the bloodstained oppressor of our race is at hand; he rests this night at Warwick, with a force far exceeding any that we can gather to meet him; their lances might uphold the skies, their arrows darken the heavens. All the robber barons of note are there; the butcher priest Ode, who smote with the mace at Hastings, because he might not shed blood, the fierce Lord of Oxford, the half Danish Harcourt, Arundel, Talbot, Maltravers, Peveril, Morton—all swell the train which has advanced to the destruction of our faint hope of liberty in the Midlands, our trust that at least old Mercia may defy the despoiler."

"Let us die, then, like brave men," was the cry of many, "since we cannot live as freemen."

"And shed our blood in vain, leaving the victory to the oppressors! Nay, we must live for another Senlac, which shall reverse the doom of the former. Leofric of Deeping, our guest from East Anglia, will tell you of one who yet defies Norman tyranny, with whom we may unite, under whose banner victory may yet bless the old flag of England."

Leofric rose, amidst cheers and demonstrations of applause, somewhat tempered by the gravity of the occasion; nay, a few faint-hearted churls said, "Let us hear what he has to propose before we cheer him."

"Has the name of Hereward, Lord of Brunn, yet reached your ears?"

A general shout of approbation replied, "Yes!"

"He it was who, while yet but a stripling, stirred up the people of Dover to drive the proud Eustace out of their town, in good King Edward's time, when he slew with his own hands a French knight. He fought by the side of our Harold when he tamed Griffith, the wildcat of Wales. He was in Flanders, to our great loss, when the Normans invaded England, and there he heard, with grief, of the death of our Harold and the slaughter at Senlac. Now, hearing that many brave men yet defy the tyrant in the Isle of Ely, protected by its bogs and marshes, he has accepted the invitation of the Abbot Thurstan, and has hastened to return home and place himself at their head. Three years have passed since Hastings, and yet England is unconquered; the Normans concentrate their force against Ely in vain; Crowland, Spalding, and many other places are recovered, and the Danes promise their assistance to deliver those who were their brethren under Canute from Norman tyranny.

"Therefore, in the name of the Lord of Brunn and the Abbot Thurstan of Ely, I invite you to repair thither, to take part in the great struggle so nobly begun for the deliverance of England from the hateful yoke."

There was a dead silence, broken at last by a voice:

"But might we not first strike a blow for our own poor homes?"

"That blow shall be struck in time, and in time not far off; but now it would be a waste, and a sinful waste of English blood, just when every man is wanted. What can ye do against ten thousand Normans, out here in the open country? or what good can ye hope to do in the woods? Nay, come to the Camp of Refuge, the last retreat of England's noblest sons; there is the noble Archbishop Stigand, the faithful English prelate, who dared to defy the Conqueror to his face; there the Bishops of Lincoln, Winchester, Durham, and Lindisfarne, whose fair palaces are usurped by Norman intruders; there the patriotic Abbots of Glastonbury and St. Albans; there nobles, thanes—all who yet dare to hope for England's salvation; and thence shall the tide of victory return after the ebb, and sweep the Bastard and his Norman dogs into the sea. England shall be England again, yea, to the latest generations."

Cheer upon cheer arose from the company; it was evident that the envoy had gained his point. Wilfred now stood up.

"There are but two courses open to us, men of Aescendune—to return to our haunts in the woods, to be hunted out in the next dry season like vermin; the other, to repair to the Camp of Refuge. I, for one, have decided; I will no longer hide in the Dismal Swamp like a brock—I will accept the invitation of Abbot Thurstan, and live or die by the side of the brave Hereward."

"And I," "and I," "and I."

"We cannot all go," said Wilfred; "some must remain to escort our women and children to the woods, and to defend them there, if need be, till the tide of victory, of which our guest has told us, reaches these parts. This task befits the oldest men amongst us; but let each man make his choice this evening, for by midnight all should be settled, and we who go should be on our way to the east."

"And are we to leave Aescendune to the foe?"

"Nay, this accursed monument of Norman tyranny, this castle shall fall, the flames shall consume it this night, and we will give every house, barn, and stable to the flames also. The Normans shall find poor lodgings for man and beast when they come tomorrow. Etienne, son of the murderer Hugo, shall enter upon a desolate heritage, and feed his horses with cinders.

"Haga, oldest retainer of our house, wilt thou take the command of those who remain? let them be thy children."

"I accept the charge," said the old man, and bowed his head.

"Now, who will remain with him in the woods, and who will go with me? Let those who would ride to the Camp of Refuge hold up their hands on high."

"Ulf, Sexwulf, Tosti, Wulfgar, Ordgar,"—and so Wilfred went on counting all the younger and more impetuous spirits on his side, his heart swelling with pardonable pride, as he thought he should not go alone, or as a mere fugitive, to the help of the patriotic Hereward.

But the aged men hung their heads; most of them had kindred—some a wife, some children, and even amongst the younger there were those whose love to an aged parent kept them back; the ties of family were ever strong in the English heart.

So there were, after all, only about a hundred gallant youths, who elected to make the dangerous ride across the heart of England, Norman infested, with their young chieftain.

"A hundred such men will be a welcome addition to our numbers; few thanes have joined us more worthily attended," said Leofric.

The meeting now broke up.

Great was the confusion in the village that night, and sad the partings between friends and kinsfolk. All the beasts of burden were put in requisition; only a hundred of the choicest steeds reserved for the brave band who were to accompany their beloved lord to the Camp.

By midnight these steeds were laden, and all was ready for the exodus.

Then a dozen stern men bore brands of fire through the village, and soon every house burst into flames.

It was sad to see their homes burning; it seemed almost a crime to apply the torch; but each man thought it better far, than to leave them for Normans to dwell in.

And soon a brighter blaze startled the neighbourhood—the castle cast its broad banner of flame to the heavens, and thick clouds of smoke blotted out the stars. Then the priory, the short-lived priory, followed the lead of the castle, and the valley was light as in broad day, while the river seemed to run with blood as it reflected the blaze.

And by the light two parties left the village in opposite directions—the last farewells were spoken. Into the woods—gloomy and desolate, dimly lighted up by the glare, which filled the heavens, along the river, glowing as it reflected the blaze—into the woods the two different parties took their way.

The one was led by Wilfred, and Leofric as guide, the other by Haga. And so the forest swallowed them up, and Aescendune knew them no more.

The fire burnt on, but none were there to heed it; tower and rampart came crashing down into the red ruins, but a few affrighted birds were the only living witnesses of the doom of the proud building, which Hugo had erected as the badge of the slavery of his English vassals.

Crash! crash! and the answer came from the priory; down fell the castle towers, down fell the priory bell turrets. Norman count and Norman monk were alike homeless.

The morning sun rose brightly upon the devastation, the birds resumed their matin songs, for it was a lovely morning in June; but as yet no human footfall broke the oppressive silence.

It was the early hour of summer sunrise, and the distant sound of a convent bell varied the monotony of the scene, as it called the faithful to prayer. A sudden sound, as of many riders riding briskly, and a band of lances—the avant garde of a mighty army—drew rein at the verge of the yawning and smoking furnace which had been the castle. There they paused abruptly, and one who seemed almost overwhelmed by surprise and disappointment, gazed as if stupefied upon the wreck of his fortunes.

It was Etienne of Aescendune cum Malville.

As we have seen, the conflagration was yet at its heights when Wilfred of Aescendune and his hundred men left the scene, and took their road to the east, along the reddened waters of the river.

It was not without the deepest sorrow, that the English heir thus abandoned his inheritance, but necessity left no choice; it was plain that the force arrayed against him rendered resistance hopeless, and it was far better to go where his sword was likely to be of use in the struggle for freedom than to hide in the woods, as he said, "like a brock, until the dogs hunt it out."