That morning she had received the Holy Communion at his hands; and of the familiar rites prescribed by the Church of those days for the comfort of the dying, only the last anointing, after the example of Him, whose body was anointed for His burial, remained, and with humble faith she received the holy rite.

This done, she made signs for her children to approach; she threw her arms fondly around them in turn, but could not speak.

The priest bade them all kneel down, and he recommenced the litany for the dying.  Soon he came to the solemn words: 

“Per Crucem et Passionem Tuam,
Libera eam Domine {viii}.”

She strove to make the holy sign of our redemption, and in making it, yielded her chaste soul to the hands of her merciful Father and loving Redeemer.  She had gone to rejoin her own true love, and her poor children were orphans in a world of violence and wrong.

They laid her by the side of Edmund, and the same solemn rites we have described before were yet once more repeated.  There were many, many true mourners, all the poor English who felt that her intercession alone had interposed between them and a cruel lord—­and the very foreigners themselves, whom her meekness and gentle beauty had strangely touched—­all mourned the lily of Aescendune.

But her children!—­Who shall describe the sense of desolation which fell upon them as they stood by the open grave?

“Comfort them, O Father of the fatherless,” prayed the good prior; “comfort them and defend them with Thy favourable kindness as with a shield.”

CHAPTER V. A FRAY IN THE GREENWOOD.

After the last sad rites were paid to the Lady Winifred, a deep gloom fell upon Wilfred, and his sorrow was so great that it won respect from his Norman companions, at least for a time.

He was indeed alone, for the baron had sent his sister Edith to a convent for her better education, as he said, and as Wilfred had none of his own kith and kin about him, he avoided all company, save when the routine of each day forced him into the society of his fellow pages.

Such was the case one fine morning in early spring, a few months after the loss of his mother.

The four pages were in the tilt yard, where there stood a wooden figure, called a “quintain,” which turned round upon an axis, and held a wooden sword in one hand and a buckler in the other.

It was the duty of each of the athletes to mount his horse, and strike the buckler full in the centre with his lance, while riding by at full speed, under certain penalties, which will soon be perceived.

Etienne rode first, and acquitted himself with remarkable dexterity; after him Wilfred was invited by the maitre d’armes to make the trial, but he was comparatively unaccustomed to the game.

“Let Pierre or Louis try next,” said he.

The two boys, thus called upon, went through the trial fairly, striking the very centre of the shield, as befitted them.  And then our Wilfred could not refuse to make the attempt.  He rode, but his horse swerved just before meeting the mock warrior; he struck the shield, therefore, on one side, whereupon the figure wheeled round, and, striking him with the wooden sword, hurled him from his horse on to the sward, amidst the laughter of his companions.