Forth they now issued, the heralds first with their trumpets; then the men-at-arms with all the pomp of Norman array; then the principal tenants of the estate, looking more like prisoners than guests; then another troop of Norman men-at-arms; then each on his own horse, his squire by his side; the neighbouring barons, who had already built their castles and strengthened themselves in the land; then, preceded and attended by pages in sumptuous tunics of linen, fringed and girded with cloth of gold, the happy pair, he on his war steed, she on her white palfrey—­he dark as the raven, she fair as the lily.

Wilfred and Etienne were walking side by side in the procession, and it was impossible to help being struck by the contrast in their appearance—­the one supple and lithe in every limb, with dark, restless eyes, and quick, nervous temperament; the other, the English boy, with his brown hair, his sunburnt, yet handsome features—­the fruit of country air and exercise—­far stouter and sturdier than his foreign rival.

They were expected, of course, to be very friendly; but any keen observer would have noted a certain air of distrust which showed itself from time to time in their glances, in spite of the awkward advances they made to each other.

How could it be otherwise?  Could they forget the deadly feud between their races?  Could they forget that each was a claimant of the lands of Aescendune—­the one by birth, the other by the right of conquest?

And now the bridal train reached the gates of the Hall amidst the plaudits of the Normans and the deep silence of the Englishmen—­many of whom would sooner far have seen the fair Winifred in her grave than the wife of Hugo de Malville.

“What thinkest thou, Sexwulf, of this most outlandish wedding?”

“What can I think, Ulf, but that the good widow has lost her senses through grief at the death of her lord, the noble Edmund, else would the dove never mate the black crow.”

“Yea, she was pale as death as she entered the church.”

“Well she may be; she liketh not the match, only she would save the estates for her boy’s sake.”

“Will she be able to save them?”

“So the Conqueror hath promised.  Wilfred, our young lord, is to inherit if he live; and if he die, then that dark young French lad—­a true cub of the old wolf.”

“If he live.  Well, I would not wager much upon his chance of a long life in that case.”

“Nor I; but we must not say so, if we value our ears, or our necks even.”

Long and loud was the revelry in the castle of Aescendune that night; as it is written in the old ballad of Imogene: 

“The tables groaned with the weight of the feast, And many and noble were the guests.”

But no spectral form sat beside the bride, although there were not wanting those who half imagined the dead Edmund might appear—­roused even from the grave, to see the seat he had occupied so many years in honour and worth, filled by this dark-browed Norman stranger.