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 pa.s.sed? 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 circ.u.mscribes 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 trespa.s.ses."

The daily ministrations of the poor childless widow, whom he had made childless, were a n.o.ble 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 grat.i.tude?"

"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 a.s.saulted 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d's own time thou wilt learn the truth."

"Then I may not act as a mediator between my father and his fugitive va.s.sals?"

"Not under present circ.u.mstances. There is a dark mystery, which G.o.d 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."