At this moment, the gleams, the parting beams, of the setting sun shone upon pennon and upon lance, issuing from the wood afar off.  The multitude, who had assembled below, saw the sight, and rushed tumultuously forward to meet their kinsfolk.

Hugh forgot the story about his uncle, ran down stairs, and joined the throng, who pressed over the bridge.

Amidst the pomp of banners, the crash of trumpets, and the loud acclamations and cheers of the crowd, the Crusaders reached home, and entered the castle yard.

Edith fell into the arms of her lord as he dismounted, then sought her son.  She knew not to which to turn.

A grave personage, who studied hard to maintain his composure, but whose eyes were filled with tears, had also dismounted, and was standing by.

“Edith,” cried Etienne, “behold our brother.”

And she fell upon his neck with a torrent of tears, as all the life of her childhood rushed upon her—­“hours that were to memory dear.”

Only a few more lines are needed to dismiss the heroes and personages of our tale to rest.

Wilfred spent a few happy days with his brother-in-law cheered by the society of his sister and her children.

Between him and Etienne all clouds had departed; they had learned, amidst the perils of the return journey, to appreciate each other, and wondered they had ever been such foes.

Once only he visited the Dismal Swamp, the scene of such exciting events in his earlier life.  He found it an utter wilderness, not a house had been left standing; Etienne had wished to abolish the very remembrance of the scenes in which, as his conscience told him, he had acted so ill a part, and when he had succeeded in persuading the English to trust him, and return to Aescendune, he had fired the little hamlet and reduced it to ashes.

The brook murmured in solitude and silence, the birds sang undisturbed by the strife of men.

The scene of Edwin’s death from the arrows of Etienne’s followers could hardly be identified; but under the very tree where Pierre had fallen in stern retaliation, Wilfred knelt, and besought pardon for himself and rest for the soul which he had sent so hurriedly before the judgment seat.

“Oh how much we had to forgive each other, Etienne and I,” he said half aloud.

These words caused him to raise his head, and look instinctively over the place where the light wind was bowing down the heads of the tall reeds and sedges, which grew where the fire, that destroyed Count Hugo and his band, had swept over their predecessors.

These remembrances saddened him, he returned to the castle—­the prey of conflicting emotions.

But much did Wilfred marvel at the peace and concord that reigned in this happy village, in such contrast to the discord which elsewhere marked the relations between Englishman and Norman, the conquered and the conquerors; and one day he ventured to remark upon the happy change to his old rival and brother-in-law.