To these poor monks Wilfred had been commended by the good prior of Aescendune, and with them he purposed to rest all day, for it was not safe to travel before nightfall without a Norman passport.  For Norman riders, soldiers of fortune, infested all the highways, and they would certainly require Wilfred, or any other English traveller, to show cause for being on the road, and, in default of such cause, would render very rough usage.

It was now drawing near the third hour of the day, and Wilfred had already spied his resting place from the summit of a hill.  In spite of his woes, too, he wanted his breakfast, and was already speculating on the state of the monastic larder, when the road entered a small wood.

It was not a straight road at all, and the rider could not see a hundred yards before him, when suddenly a troop of horse came round a curve at a smart trot, and were upon him before he could escape their notice.

“Whom have we here?” exclaimed the leader.

Wilfred knew him; it was that same Count Eustace de Blois, who had rescued him from danger on the field of Senlac, and taken him to the tent of the Conqueror.

His first impulse was to tell Count Eustace everything and to claim his protection.  Then he remembered that this Eustace was the friend of his stepfather, and the distrust—­not to say hatred—­he was beginning to feel to all Normans overcame, unhappily it may be, the first generous impulse of confidence.

“It is I, Wilfred of Aescendune,” he coldly replied.

“So I see,” said the Norman, “and marvel to meet thee alone and unattended on the highway, so far from home.  Thou hast thy father’s permission?”

“I have no father,” said Wilfred, in a tone which at once betrayed that something was amiss.

“Stepfather, of course, I would say, and I judge from thy reply that all is not well.  Wilt thou not tell me what is wrong?”

“My errand is urgent, and I only crave permission to continue my road in peace.”

“You are more likely to continue it in pieces, when so many outlaws and cutthroats are about, and my duty will not suffer thee to go farther till I know that thou hast thy father’s, that is, the baron’s permission.”

Wilfred’s only reply was to set spurs to his horse, and to try to escape by flight from his troublesome interrogator; but although he did succeed in clearing the party, his poor palfrey was tired, and the Norman horses were fresh, so the attempt was made in vain; he was pursued and brought back to Eustace de Blois.

“Why didst thou attempt to escape?” said that noble, grimly.  “I fear that thou art playing the truant—­against thine own interests, and must take thee with me whither I am bound, which happeneth to be Aescendune.”

“Nay, I pray thee suffer me to proceed; life and death hang upon my errand.”

“Confide in me then, and tell me all.”

But Wilfred could not; in his then frame of mind, he could not confide the story of his mother’s woes to a Norman—­to his fevered mind one of the intruders was as bad as another—­as well bring a complaint before one wolf that another wolf had eaten a lamb.