“My forgiveness!  How has he injured me?  He is a Norman, I suppose?”

“Nay, he belongeth not to the proud race of our oppressors; he is an old serf of thy house.  Dost thou remember Beorn the woodman?”

“Who slew the deer and sold them in secret, and when the deed was discovered, fled?”

“The same; it is he.”

“But what harm hath he done so great that he should come here to ask forgiveness?  ’Twas a small matter; at least, it seems so now.”

“My son, that is not the matter he hath to confess.”

“What is it, then?”

“Prepare thyself, my dear child; now be composed; you must resign yourself to God’s will.”

“Tell me, father, and end this suspense.  What is amiss?”

“Nay, he must do that; I wanted to prepare thee; but tis about thy mother.”

Wilfred turned pale at once and trembled, for the one passion which divided his soul with hatred to the Normans was love for the memory of his parents.  What had the man got to say about his mother?

“But this is not constancy and firmness—­thou quakest like an aspen leaf.”

“Tell me, was aught amiss in my mother’s death?”

“Didst thou ever suspect it?”

“Yes, but I put the thought away, as though it came from Satan.”

“Well, poor child, thou wilt know now, and God help thee to bear it rightly.”

Trembling and astonished, Wilfred followed the prior into an adjoining cell, where, propped up by cushions, lay the attenuated form of a dying man—­the death sweat already on his brow, standing thereon in beads—­the limbs rigid as a recent convulsion had left them.

Any one conversant in the signs which immediately precede death could have told that he had but a short time to live.  The good monk, who was supporting him and breathing words of Christian hope into his ears, left him as the prior and Wilfred entered.

The prior took the monk’s place, and supported the head of the penitent.

“Look,” he said, as he raised him upon his arm, “Wilfred of Aescendune, the son of thy late lord.”

The poor wretch groaned—­such a deep hollow groan.

“Canst thou forgive me?” he said.

“Forgive thee what?”

“Tell him all, my son, and ease thy burdened mind.”

The thrall then spake, in words interrupted by gasps and sighs, which we must needs omit as we piece his narrative together for the benefit of our readers.

“It is five years since I fled thy father’s face, fearing his wrath, for I had slain his red deer and sold them for filthy lucre.  Woe is me!  I had better have trusted to his mercy and borne my fitting punishment; but, as Satan tempted me, I fled to the great city, where men are crowded together thick as bees in swarming time, to hide myself amongst many.  There I was like to starve, and none gave me to eat, when a Jew who saw my distress, took pity on me and gave me shelter.