The headsman leaned upon his axe, but no procession yet approached.

The sun was now a quarter of an hour high, when a murmur passed through the crowd that something had happened.  At length the murmur deepened into a report that Wilfred had been found dead in his bed.

“Died,” said some, “by the judgment of God.”

“The better for him,” said others.

And there were even those who murmured bitterly that they were disappointed of the spectacle, which they had left their beds to witness.  Such unfeeling selfishness is not without example in modern times.

Etienne left the roof, burning with indignation, suspecting some trick to cheat him of his vengeance.

“Come into this cell,” said the soft voice of Lanfranc.

Etienne obeyed.

There lay his young rival, cold and pale.  Etienne doubted no longer; death was too palpably stamped upon the face.

“Canst thou forgive now?” said Lanfranc.  “His last message was one of forgiveness for thee.”

“I know not.  An hour ago I thought no power on earth could make me; but we have each suffered wrongs.”

“Ye have.”

“I do forgive, then; requiescat in pace.”

“So shall it be well with thee before God,” said the good prelate.

So Wilfred was buried in the vaults of St. Frideswide’s church.  The Archbishop Lanfranc celebrated the funeral mass.  It was noticed with surprise that Bishop Geoffrey absented himself from the function and the subsequent burial rites.

The week ended, as all weeks come to an end.  Lanfranc had gone to Canterbury.  The Conqueror, assured by trusty reporters of the death of Wilfred, rejoiced that so satisfactory an accident had befallen, sparing all publicity and shame to one he could but admire, as he ever admired pluck and devotion.

Geoffrey alone remained a guest at a monastic foundation hard by St. Frideswide’s.

The midnight bell has struck twelve—­or, rather, has been struck twelve times by the sexton, in the absence of machinery.

All is silence and gloom in the church of St. Frideswide, and upon the burial ground around.

Three muffled figures stand in a recess of the cloisters.

“This is the door,” said the sexton; “but, holy St. Frideswide, to go down there tonight!”

“Thou forgettest I am a bishop; I can lay spirits if they arise.”

The sexton stood at the open door—­a group of the bishop’s retainers farther off—­that iron door which never opened to inmate before.

Geoffrey and the Jew advanced to the grave, amidst stone coffins and recesses in the walls, where the dead lay, much as in the catacombs.

They stopped before a certain recess.

There, swathed in woollen winding sheets, lay the mute form of Wilfred of Aescendune.

“Let him see thee when he arises.  The sight of this deathly place may slay him.  He will awake as from sleep.  Take this sponge—­bathe well the brow; how the aromatic odour fills the vaults!”