Wilfred spoke good Norman French, thanks to his early education, in company with Etienne and the other pages, after the Conquest.  So he began his story lucidly, but not without some emotion, which he strove in vain to suppress.

“Normans,” he said, “I would not defend myself against this foul charge to save my forfeit life, nor could I hope to save it.  Ye have met like wolves to judge a stag, and since ye have taken from me all that makes life dear, I refuse not to die; only I would die with honour, and hence I strive, speaking but the words of truth, to remove the stain which my enemy there” (he turned and pointed at Etienne) “has cast upon my honour, for I am of a house that has never known shame, and would not disgrace it in my person.

“I submitted to the father ye Normans gave me, and bore all the wrongs he and his heaped upon me, until the day when I discovered in that father” (he pronounced the word with the deepest scorn) “the murderer of my own mother.”

A general burst of incredulity, followed by an indignant and scornful denial from Etienne.

“Silence,” said a stern voice, “this is not a hostelry; the prisoner has the right of speech and the ear of the judge; only, Englishman, be careful what thou sayest.”

“I repeat the simple fact, my lord” (this was the only title Wilfred would give the King); “the baron, whom ye are pleased sportively to call my father, poisoned my own mother.”

“Poisoned! poisoned!  My liege, can this be endured?”

“Hear him to the end, and then, if he have spoken without proof, it will be time to pronounce his aggravated sentence.  Silence!”

Wilfred continued, and told the whole story as our readers know it, until his arrival at the Dismal Swamp.  He described all that had passed so clearly that his foes became interested in spite of themselves, and listened.  He did not charge Hugo with the burning of the priory, for he had no evidence to sustain the charge, being only aware that such was at hand to be produced by others; as he had learnt from Father Kenelm, who had been granted admittance to his cell.

At length he finished in these words: 

“And now I have told you all the truth, and if ye will not believe me, but prefer to think I betrayed those to death I loved so dearly, I cannot help myself; but if there be a God, and a judgment day—­as ye all profess to believe—­I appeal to that God and that day, knowing that my innocence will then be made clear.  That I fought with them who slew the baron I freely admit, and hold myself justified, as ye must, if ye believe my story; but I myself protected the monks of your kindred, albeit they had taken the places of better men than themselves, and not one was harmed; and when we fled, we burnt castle, priory, and village, without distinction, that they might not shelter an enemy.  This, too, I hold to be lawful in war.

“I know that Englishmen find scant justice at Norman hands, and that ye will slay me as a rebel.  Do so, and I will thank you; only defile not the memory—­slay not the reputation as well as the body.  If the house of Aescendune, which was planted in this land when ye Normans were but pagan Danes, is to perish, let it at least go unsullied to its grave.  I have spoken.”