On the fortieth day of the siege the city was carried by a.s.sault, and on Friday, at three in the afternoon, the day and even the hour of the death of the Son of G.o.d, G.o.dfrey de Bouillon planted his standard on the walls, the first of the n.o.ble army of Crusaders.

Thus, four hundred and sixty years after the conquest of Christian Jerusalem by the Mahometan, Caliph Omar, it was delivered from the yoke of the false prophet.

Seventy thousand Moslems were slain by the sword; for three whole days the ma.s.sacre continued, until each worshipper of Mahomet had been sought out amidst the hiding places of the city--full of secret nooks and corners--and put to death.

And now, after this b.l.o.o.d.y sacrifice--the fruit of mistaken zeal--the Christians proceeded to accomplish their vow, with every mark of penitence. With bare heads and bleeding feet they mounted the Via Dolorosa (the sorrowful way) and wept where the great sacrifice had been offered for their sins. They literally bedewed the sacred soil with their tears.

So strange a union of fierceness and piety may well astonish us, but our office is to relate the facts.

It was over, this strange but touching act of devotion, and the sacred hill was partially deserted. Here and there a group of weeping penitents lingered, and on the spot where tradition a.s.serted the cross to have been raised, many were seen yet waiting their turn to salute the ground reverently with their lips.

Two knightly warriors, a father and a son, who had just performed this act of devotion, arose together, and as they gained their feet, observed their immediate predecessor in the pious act, awaiting them, as if he wished to accost them.

They were all, as we have seen, bareheaded, neither did they wear any armour or weapons--all resistance had ceased, and with it all warfare, before the ceremony of the day had begun.

"Father," said young Edward, "it is my deliverer."

The Knight of the Holy Sepulchre beckoned them to follow, and together they gained the outskirts of the crowd.

Etienne de Malville has greatly changed since we last beheld him.

In the place of the sprightly, impetuous youth, our readers must imagine a warrior, past the middle age; one whose scanty hair was already deeply tinged with gray. Thirty years had left many wrinkles on his brow; but where impatience and fiery temper had once sat visible to all, age and experience had subst.i.tuted self-control and wisdom.

"I have to thank thee, my valiant brother in arms, for the life of my son. To whom do I render my thanks? Well do I know thy fame as the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre; but our vow accomplished, we may lay aside our incognitos and a.s.sume our names once more."

"We may indeed, and I will utter the name of one--long since numbered with the dead in the records of men, and re-a.s.sume it upon this sacred mount."

Etienne gazed intently upon the open face, but no look of recognition followed.

"I crave thy pardon, if I ought to recognise thee, yet truth compels me to say I do not."

"Nor can I wonder; didst thou recognise me, thou wouldst think me a ghost permitted to revisit the land of the living--one whom thou didst actually behold wrapped in the cere cloth of the tomb!--whose funeral thou didst witness with thine own eyes! Yet he lives, and feels sure that thou wilt not revoke, upon this holy hill, that pardon from the living, thou didst bestow upon the seeming dead."

Etienne trembled.

"Art thou then? nay, it cannot be!"

"Etienne de Malville, I am Wilfred of Aescendune."

For a moment Etienne turned pale, and gazed as if to make sure he did not behold a ghost or a vampire--gazed like one startled out of his self possession, and the first emotion which succeeded was sheer incredulity; there was small trace of the once fair-haired English boy in the sunburnt, storm-beaten warrior of fifty to a.s.sist his memory.

"Nay, my brother, it cannot be; thou art jesting;--not, at least, the Wilfred of Aescendune I once knew, and by whom I fear I dealt somewhat hardly; he died, and was buried at Oxenford thirty years agone. I saw his dead body; I beheld his burial; I have joined in ma.s.ses for his soul; I have prayed for his repose; nay, it cannot be!"

But when in few words, but words to the purpose, Wilfred explained the device of Geoffrey of Coutances--when he reminded Etienne of facts, which none but he could have known--conviction gradually, but firmly, seized the mind of his ancient enemy.

"I believe that thou art he," said the latter, with trembling voice; "believe, though I cannot yet realise the fact, and I thank G.o.d."

He extended his hand gravely, and Wilfred grasped it with equal solemnity.

"Thou art, then, my uncle Wilfred I have so long been taught to think dead, for whom I have prayed many a time, for whom countless ma.s.ses have been offered at St. Wilfred's shrine," said young Edward.

"Thou hast not, then, been taught to hate me?"

"No, indeed," said the boy; "why should I?"

"He knows nought of the quarrel between us, save what it is fitting that Edith's child should know," said Etienne. "It is well that upon this holiest spot on earth, whence the Prince of Life uttered the words which have floated through the ages--'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do'--that Etienne de Malville and Wilfred of Aescendune should become friends."

"It is, indeed."

"I have long been conscious that thou wast not alone to blame--that thou hast to forgive as well as I; but thou, like myself, hast long since, I am sure, earned the right to breathe the prayer, 'Forgive us our trespa.s.ses, as we forgive them that trespa.s.s against us.'"

Once more they grasped hands--Etienne still like one in a dream.

"Come now to my tent. There thou mayst tell me all the details of thy story, and I will tell thee news, unless this boy, my son and thy nephew, has antic.i.p.ated me, of those thou didst leave behind thirty years ago in England. Thy sister Edith is my beloved wife, and in this boy Norman and Englishman meet together, the merits of each combined, the faults obliterated, if a father may be trusted."

And the friends, who once were foes, entered the tent of Etienne.

CHAPTER XXVIII. AESCENDUNE ONCE MORE.

"Last scene of all, Which ends this strange eventful history."

Once more we must ask our readers to accompany us to Aescendune--it is for the last time--to witness the final scenes recorded in these veracious Chronicles.

Thirty-four years have pa.s.sed since the battle of Hastings; and our tale has now advanced to the autumn of the last year of the eleventh century.

The face of the country is little altered since we last beheld it, so far as the works of G.o.d are concerned: the woods, His first temples, and the everlasting hills stand, as when Elfric and his brother hunted therein with Prince Edwy, or the sainted Bertric suffered martyrdom in the recesses of the forest, at the hands of the ruthless Danes {xxix}.

But the works of man are more transitory, and in them there is a great change. The Norman castle rebuilt by Etienne stands where erst stood the Anglo-Saxon hall; the new Priory of St. Wilfred's resembles that of St. Denys in architecture, although it bears the name of the old English saint, to whose honour the first sacred pile, erected by Offa of Aescendune was dedicated; the houses which dot the scene are of a more substantial character; stone is superseding wood. Whatever were its darker features, the Norman conquest brought with it a more advanced civilisation, especially as expressed in architecture {x.x.x}.

Within her bower, as the retiring apartments of the lady of the castle were termed, sat Edith of Aescendune, not the first who had borne that name. She had now pa.s.sed middle age, and her years would soon number half a century, yet time had dealt very kindly with her, and but few shades of grey appeared amidst her locks. The traces of a gentle grief were upon her, but men said she mourned for the absence of her lord and her eldest son, and her thoughts seemed far away from the embroidery at which she worked with her maidens--an altar frontal for the priory church.

She thought of the far East--of the sandy wastes of Syria. Or her fancy painted the holy city, with her dear ones as worshippers in its reconquered shrines.

For she had not found an unkind lord in Etienne. The scenes which he had pa.s.sed through, as related in the earlier pages of this Chronicle, had produced fruit for good, which Lanfranc (under whose spiritual guidance he placed himself) had zealously tended and fostered.

He dared not think of his father, of whose guilt he could not but be unwillingly convinced; nor was it true in his case:

"He who's convinced against his will Is but an unbeliever still."

But there was one act of mercy of which he had been the object, which above all influenced and changed his heart towards the English. And that was the Christian charity he had received from the aged Englishwoman, the nurse of Wilfred, whose son Eadwin he had so cruelly slain in the Dismal Swamp.

Acting under the advice of Lanfranc, he had sought and obtained Edith in marriage, and had thereby, like Henry Beauclerc, united the claims of conquerors and conquered in his person. He had obtained from the king a promise of free pardon to all the refugees yet in the Dismal Swamp, where it will be remembered the poor English had fled, who were unfit to accompany Wilfred to the Camp of Refuge, and had thereupon invited them all to rebuild their old homes and dwell in them.

At first they would not trust him, but through the mediation of Father Kenelm and of poor old Hilda, he succeeded in gaining their confidence, and he did not betray their trust.

So Norman and Englishman were happily united at Aescendune, and in spite of some little difficulties, arising from the airs the conquerors could not help giving themselves, became more like one people daily; and in a few years, so many followed their lord's example, and intermarried with the English, captivated by the beauty of the Anglo-Saxon maidens, that distinction of race became speedily abolished, and hence Aescendune was perhaps the happiest village in the distracted island.