The cry which aroused young Wilfred from his sleep was uttered in a tone of distress, which at once appealed to his manhood for aid.

And it was a familiar voice—­that of his own foster brother, the son of his old nurse, with whom, in the innocent days of childhood, he had sported and romped again and again; for distinctions of rank were far less regarded amongst the old English than amongst the Normans—­they were “English all.”

The poor peasant lad had been so unfortunate as to bring down a hare with a heavy stick.  The animal had risen just before him; the weapon was ready; the temptation too great.  Forgetful of all but the impulse of the moment, he had flung the stick, and the hare fell.  He was just rushing to seize his prize, when the three Norman pages came suddenly on the scene.

“Here is a young English lout, killing a hare,” shouted Etienne; “lay hold of him.”

And before the astonished Eadwin could fly, the son of his lord fulfilled his own command, and seized the culprit by the collar.

“How didst thou dare, thou false thief, to kill one of our hares?  Dost thou not know the penalty?”

The unhappy lad stammered out faint excuses, in broken English; “he had not meant to do it—­the thing rose up so suddenly”—­and the like.  But in the first place his captors did not understand his language sufficiently to make out the excuses, neither were they in the mood to receive any.

“What is the law?” said Etienne; “does it not say that he who slays a hare shall lose the hand that did the deed; and here is a poacher taken red handed.  Louis, where is thy hunting knife?”

“We need not trouble to take him to the castle; off with his hand, and let him go.”

Their hunting knives, with which they were accustomed to “break up” the deer, were in their girdles, and, shame to say, the other two youths at once assented to Etienne’s proposal to execute the law themselves.

So they dragged their intended victim to a stump, and Etienne prepared to execute the cruel operation which he had witnessed too often not to know how to do it.

Poor Eadwin appealed in vain for mercy.  They were laughing at his fright, and indeed there was so little sympathy between Norman lord and English thrall, that pity found no place to enter into the relations between them:  it was the old Roman and his slave over again.

But an unexpected deliverer was at hand.

Just as the young “noble” was about to execute the threat; when the poor wrist was already extended by force on a rude stump; when the knife was already drawn from its sheath, Wilfred appeared on the scene, and, in a tone the Norman lads started to hear from him, exclaimed: 

“Let him go; touch him if you dare; he is my foster brother; my thrall, if anybody’s.”

“Like cleaves to like,” said Etienne, sarcastically; “but, my fair brother, thou wilt hardly interfere with the due course of the law.”