"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 G.o.d, 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 gra.s.s, 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 woodp.e.c.k.e.r 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 G.o.d 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, s.e.xwulf, Ulf and Frithgift, and be sure that thou keepest out of the fen thyself."

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

"By G.o.d'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.