Little trifling details like these forced themselves upon him, even as an artist represents each humble detail in a finished picture.

Did he repent that he had refused life and Aescendune?  No, he hated the Normans with too profound a hatred.

Was he prepared to die?  We are sorry to record that he shook off every thought of the future.  God had delivered the English into the hands of the Normans—­his father and mother had been good religious people, and what had they got by it?  If there was a God, why were such cruelties allowed to exist unavenged?  He and His saints must be asleep.  Such were the wicked thoughts which arose, as we grieve to record, in poor Wilfred’s mind.

But now heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, and soon Lanfranc, conducted by the Norman governor, entered the cell.

Against him Wilfred could not, in reason, feel the enmity he bore to all others of Norman race; it was owing to his exertions, and to those of Geoffrey of Coutances, that he was about to die as a patriot, and not as a sacrilegious incendiary.

It was the object of this worthy prelate to save the soul, where he had failed to save the body, and to direct the thoughts of the condemned one to Him, who Himself hung like a criminal between earth and heaven, that He might save all who would put their trust in Him.

The great obstacle in Wilfred’s mind was his inability to forgive.  This his visitor soon perceived, and by the example of those dying words, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” he gently impressed upon the penitent the duty of forgiving those who had wronged him—­however deeply.

“But how can I forgive the murderers of my mother?”

“Thou believest that mother is in Paradise?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Dost thou not wish to be with her at last?”

“As the hart desireth the water brooks.”

“Then ask thyself what she would have thee do.  Canst thou hope for the pardon of thine own grievous sins, unless thou dost first forgive all who have offended thee?”

“I will try.  See me again tomorrow, father.”

“I will do so:  I remain at St. Frideswide’s for—­a day or two.”

Wilfred understood the hesitation.

A different scene transpired simultaneously in the dungeons below, which, with their accustomed ruthless policy, the Normans had hollowed out of the soil.

The Jew, Abraham of Toledo, was resting uneasily, full of fears—­which experience too well justified—­as to his personal safety in this den of lions, when he also heard steps, this time descending the stairs, and Geoffrey of Coutances was ushered in.

“Leave the cell,” said the bishop to the gaoler, “but remain in the passage.  Close the door; I would speak with this penitent, as I trust he will prove, in private.”

“Never fear, your holiness,” said the gaoler with somewhat undue familiarity; “I care little for a Jew’s patter, and this fellow will need a long shrift before they make a roast of him—­for that, I suppose, will be the end of it.”