“Tell me what would be the signs of the drug?”

“If dropped in water, it would, although colourless, impart a blue tinge to the liquid.”

Wilfred hid his face in his hands and sobbed aloud.

“Dost thou forgive me?” said the dying thrall.

“Thou mightest have saved her, yet I do forgive thee.”

“I might; it was my sin, and she was my liege lady, the gentlest and kindest.”

“Thou art forgiven; but oh! my father! who shall do justice on the murderer, the poisoner?”

“That is thy task; the son must avenge his mother’s blood, and do justice on the murderer.  Listen, Wilfred:  Dost thou remember Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances?”

“Well,” said the poor boy, “he married them; but he, too, is a Norman—­they are all alike.”

“Nay, there be wise and good men amongst them, and this bishop is one.  Thou shalt seek him, for he is now in Oxford:  thou shalt start this very night, and tomorrow thou mayest reach him.  I will give thee the written confession of this most unhappy but penitent Beorn, and the bishop will hear thee, and justice shall yet be done.  But thou must depart at once, or he will have left the city.  I will give thee food, and my palfrey shall be at thy service in an hour’s time.  And now, my child, while the food is preparing, go and pray at thy mother’s tomb, and ask for grace to seek justice, not revenge; for it is not fitting the murderer should lord it longer over thy people and thee!”

And in another minute the unhappy lad was prostrate before his mother’s tomb:  all other thoughts had gone from him—­Etienne, Pierre, and the rest were forgotten—­he was absorbed in the thought of his parent’s wrongs, and in the awful responsibility that knowledge had thrust upon him {ix}.

CHAPTER VII.  FRUSTRATED.

Far to the south of the demesne of Aescendune stretched a wild expanse of woodland, giving shelter to numberless beasts of chase, and well known to our young hero, Wilfred.

It was traversed by one of those vestiges of old times, the Roman roads, and along this ancient trackway the poor lad, eager as the avenger of blood in old times, spurred the good prior’s palfrey, which had never borne so impatient a rider before.

Onward, through the starry night, now on the open heath, now buried in the deep shadow of ancient trees, now in the darkness of the valley, then on the upland:  here, startling the timid deer; there, startled himself, as the solitary wolf, not yet extinct in those ancient forests, glared at him from bush or brake—­so Wilfred rode onward.

It was summer time, and the sun rose early; welcome was its light to our traveller, who rode on, trusting soon to reach a monastic house in the neighbourhood of Banbury, where a few poor English monks, not yet dispossessed by the Norman intruders, served God in their vocation, according to their light, and offered hospitality to the wayfarer.