“Nay, my brother, it cannot be; thou art jesting;—­not, at least, the Wilfred of Aescendune I once knew, and by whom I fear I dealt somewhat hardly; he died, and was buried at Oxenford thirty years agone.  I saw his dead body; I beheld his burial; I have joined in masses for his soul; I have prayed for his repose; nay, it cannot be!”

But when in few words, but words to the purpose, Wilfred explained the device of Geoffrey of Coutances—­when he reminded Etienne of facts, which none but he could have known—­conviction gradually, but firmly, seized the mind of his ancient enemy.

“I believe that thou art he,” said the latter, with trembling voice; “believe, though I cannot yet realise the fact, and I thank God.”

He extended his hand gravely, and Wilfred grasped it with equal solemnity.

“Thou art, then, my uncle Wilfred I have so long been taught to think dead, for whom I have prayed many a time, for whom countless masses have been offered at St. Wilfred’s shrine,” said young Edward.

“Thou hast not, then, been taught to hate me?”

“No, indeed,” said the boy; “why should I?”

“He knows nought of the quarrel between us, save what it is fitting that Edith’s child should know,” said Etienne.  “It is well that upon this holiest spot on earth, whence the Prince of Life uttered the words which have floated through the ages—­’Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’—­that Etienne de Malville and Wilfred of Aescendune should become friends.”

“It is, indeed.”

“I have long been conscious that thou wast not alone to blame—­that thou hast to forgive as well as I; but thou, like myself, hast long since, I am sure, earned the right to breathe the prayer, ’Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.’”

Once more they grasped hands—­Etienne still like one in a dream.

“Come now to my tent.  There thou mayst tell me all the details of thy story, and I will tell thee news, unless this boy, my son and thy nephew, has anticipated me, of those thou didst leave behind thirty years ago in England.  Thy sister Edith is my beloved wife, and in this boy Norman and Englishman meet together, the merits of each combined, the faults obliterated, if a father may be trusted.”

And the friends, who once were foes, entered the tent of Etienne.

CHAPTER XXVIII.  AESCENDUNE ONCE MORE.

“Last scene of all,
Which ends this strange eventful history.”

Once more we must ask our readers to accompany us to Aescendune—­it is for the last time—­to witness the final scenes recorded in these veracious Chronicles.

Thirty-four years have passed since the battle of Hastings; and our tale has now advanced to the autumn of the last year of the eleventh century.

The face of the country is little altered since we last beheld it, so far as the works of God are concerned:  the woods, His first temples, and the everlasting hills stand, as when Elfric and his brother hunted therein with Prince Edwy, or the sainted Bertric suffered martyrdom in the recesses of the forest, at the hands of the ruthless Danes {xxix}.