“Thou diest penitent for thy sins, and forgiving thy foes?”

“I do, indeed; it has been a struggle, but thou hast conquered.”

“Not I, but Divine grace;” and the mighty prelate turned aside to hide a tear.

Another visitor was announced, and Geoffrey of Coutances drew near.

“Thou art resigned, my Wilfred?”

“I am, by God’s grace.”

“Yet thou lookest feeble and ill.  Drink this tonic; it will give thee strength to play the man tomorrow.”

He emptied the contents of a phial into a small cup of water.  Wilfred drank it up.

“And now, my son, hast thou any message to leave behind thee?”

“When thou seest Etienne, tell him I forgive, as I trust he forgives also—­we have much to pardon each other—­and beg him to be a merciful lord to such poor English as yet dwell in Aescendune.”

“I will, indeed, and so second your last appeal that I doubt not to prevail.”

“And my sister—­Hugo sent her, as he said, to be educated in the convent of The Holy Trinity at Caen; convey her my last love, and a lock of hair as a memento of her only brother.  Poor Editha! she will be alone now.  Thou wilt care for her future fortunes; she has a claim on the lands of Aescendune.  Oh, Aescendune!—­bright sky, verdant fields, deep forest glades, pleasant river—­thou passest to Norman hands now.”

It was the last moment of weakness.

“May I lie there beside my father?”

“Yes, thou shalt,” said Lanfranc.

“After many years,” muttered Geoffrey to himself, for he had a secret, which he concealed from his more scrupulous brother.

Lanfranc rose to depart.

“Commend thyself to God in prayer; then sleep and dream of Paradise.  I will be with thee ere the October dawn.”

And Lanfranc departed.

“How dost thou feel, my son?” said Geoffrey.

“Well, but strangely sleepy, as if control were leaving me and my frame not my own.  Was it a strengthening dose thou gavest me?”

“One which will, perchance, save thee.  Lie on this bed; now sleep if thou wilt—­thou wilt arise the better for it.”

And in a few minutes, all anxiety forgotten, Wilfred slept—­slept heavily.  Geoffrey watched him awhile, then departed.

The morrow, and a great multitude of spectators had arranged themselves around the slopes of the mound, just before sunrise.

On the tower itself stood Etienne de Malville, eager to see the end of his hated rival, and to make sure, by ocular evidence, of his death.

The morning was clear, after high dawn.  The spectator on the tower looked towards the eastern hills, over the valley of the Cherwell, to see the sun arise above the heights of Headington.

It came at last—­the signal of death:  a huge arc of fire, changing rapidly into a semi-circle, and then into a globe.  All the earth rejoiced around, but a shudder passed through the crowd.