“Read it thyself,” said he, giving the letter which he had finished to the primate.  “It purports to be the copy of a letter addressed to me three years ago, when I was at Oxenford, but which never reached me.  Oh, what a story of damnable guilt!  Tell me, man, where didst thou obtain this?”

“I saw the original written by him, whose name it bears at the foot, and at his request took this copy, which he has attested by his name, for I was the chief calligrapher of the house of St. Wilfred.  It was his last act and deed on earth:  within a few hours he perished in the flames which consumed our poor dwelling.”

Here Father Kenelm, not without emotion, handed a second parchment to Geoffrey.

“And this?” said he of Coutances, interrogatively.

“Is the confession of a dying Norman, which he has attested by his mark, for he could not write his name.  I heard his last confession, when, to remove the stain of guilt from the innocent, he made me write this statement, and signed it as best he could.”

“How didst thou get hold of this, brother?” said the Bishop of Coutances, feeling himself, to use the expression of the writer, “sick with horror.”

“Thou hast heard, my lord, of the destruction of Baron Hugo in the Dismal Swamp?”

“Surely; I was at Abingdon when his son Etienne brought the news.”

“Only one who entered that swamp, so far as I know, escaped.  Half burnt, he dragged himself out, on our side, from the awful conflagration, and hid himself till eventide in the woods, suffering greatly.

“That day I had guided young Etienne de Malville from his concealment in our midst, to liberty and safety, and as I returned I heard the groans of a man in severe pain, but which seemed a long distance away, borne on the night winds which swept the forest.  Guided by the sound, I found Guy, son of Roger, and tended him as I had tended the son of the wicked baron.  He lingered a few days, and then died of his injuries, leaving me this confession, as his last act and deed, with full liberty to divulge it when a fitting day should arrive.”

“But why hast thou not done so before?”

“Because it was not needed; nor could I leave my refuge in the woods, where I had my own little flock to attend to, the few poor sheep saved from the Norman wolf.  Pardon me, for ye are Normans.”

“We are Benedictines,” said Lanfranc, reprovingly; “English or Normans, the children of our father Benedict are brethren, even as there is neither Jew nor Gentile, bond nor free, in Christ.”

“But why hast thou now come?” said Geoffrey.

“Hast thou not heard that the Camp of Refuge has fallen?”

“And what then?”

“Wilfred of Aescendune was a refugee therein.”

“And is he taken?”

“He was sent, together with Egelwin, Bishop of Durham, as prisoner to Abingdon, and will be brought to trial, when William arrives there next week, and, unless thou savest him, will undoubtedly die the death.”