“Law! the law of butchers and worse than butchers—­devils.  Let him go.”

“Hadst thou not better try to rescue him?  Thou hast not yet found an opportunity to show thy prowess.”

Wilfred lost all control, sprang at Etienne, struck him in a downright English fashion between the eyes, and knocked him down.  The knife fell from his hand, and Wilfred seized it before the other youths could recover from their astonishment, and flung it into a pond close at hand.

Etienne rose up.

Now my young readers will probably anticipate a bout at fisticuffs; but no such vulgar a combat commended itself to the proud young Norman, even thus suddenly humiliated; neither did he, under these very trying circumstances, lose his self command.

Yet his hatred was none the less, nor did he cherish a less deadly design.

“Let the young brute go,” said he, as he arose, pointing to Eadwin.  “There is something more important to be settled now than the question whether the young porker shall retain his cloven hoof or not.  Wilfred, dost thou know thou hast struck a gentleman?”

“I have struck a young butcher.”

“Thanks; churls fight with words; knights, and would-be knights, with swords.  Draw, then, and defend thyself; Pierre and Louis will see fair play.”

“Nay,” said the other two lads with one voice, “it were a sin and shame to fight thus, and we should have our knighthood deferred for years did we permit it.  Pages may not fight to the death without the permission of their liege lord.  The baron must give permission.”

“Wilfred, dost thou accept my challenge?  I honour thy base blood in making it.”

“My ancestors were as noble as thine; nay, they ruled here while thine were but pirates and cutthroats.  I do accept it.”

“Let us separate, then; we meet here at daybreak tomorrow.”

“But the permission of our lord?”

“I will answer for that,” replied his hopeful son.

The party separated:  Wilfred took his foster brother, who had not made the least attempt to escape from the scene, trusting to the love of his young lord for protection, and no sooner were they alone than the poor lad overwhelmed his deliverer with thanks, in which tears were not unmixed, because he knew that a price had yet to be paid, and that his beloved master was in danger.

“Nay, nay, Eadwin, I shall do very well—­if not, there is not much left to live for now—­only you must take care of yourself, or they may avenge themselves on you; indeed, when the baron hears the tale, I doubt not that he will send for you, and then I may not be able to save you—­you must fly.”

“Not till I know—­”

“Yes, this very night—­thou knowest the Deadman’s Swamp?”

“Well.”

“The Normans could never find thee there, and thou and I have threaded its recesses a hundred times; go to the hollow tree where we have slept before now in our hunting days.  I will seek thee tomorrow, if I live.  If I do not appear before midday, you had better seek our people, whom these tyrants have driven to the greenwoods.”