“I cannot,” was his reply; “it would be useless if I did.”

“Why?  I have befriended thee once.”

“Art thou not a Norman?”

“Ah!  I see where the shoe pinches,” replied Eustace; “thou hast found some traitors who have been instilling rebellion into thy youthful ears.  Well, if they are found, they shall ere long lack tongues wherewith to prate, and for the present thou must return home with me.  Wilt thou go as a freeman or as a prisoner?”

“You have the power and must use it.”

“Wilt thou promise not to attempt an escape?”

“No.”

“Then I must perforce pass a band from one leg to another, beneath the belly of thy steed, or thou mayst leave thy tired palfrey and ride behind me with a strap binding thee to my belt.  Which dost thou choose?”

“Do as it pleaseth thee.”

There was a sad, heart-broken tone in Wilfred’s voice, in spite of the defiance of his words, which interested the Norman count, who was not, as we have before seen, all steel; and during the journey which Wilfred made as a captive, Eustace made sundry attempts to win the poor youth’s confidence, but all in vain.

Riding all day, Wilfred retraced in this ignominious manner the road he had so eagerly traversed under the veil of night; and at length, towards sunset, they came in sight of the priory, the bridge, and the castle of Aescendune.

“I think I may cut these bonds now, and thou needest not be seen to return in the guise of a captive.  Once more, tell me all; I will be thy mediator with thy father.”

“Father!” repeated Wilfred with an expression indicative of something deeper yet than scorn or hatred, but he said no more.

The blast of trumpets from the approaching troop aroused the inmates of the castle, and they flocked to their battlements to behold the pennon of Eustace de Blois, familiar to them on many a hard-fought field of old.

Immediately there was bustling and saddling, and a troop of horse issued over the drawbridge to greet the coming guest.  Foremost amongst them was the grim stepfather, and by his side rode Etienne.

Imagine their surprise when they recognised Wilfred in the train of their visitor; we can hardly paint fitly the scornful looks of Etienne, or the grimness of the stepfather.

But there was etiquette to be consulted—­a most important element in the days of chivalry—­and no question was asked until all the customary salutations had been made.

“I see my son Wilfred has been the first to welcome thee; may I ask where he met thee on the road?” asked Hugo, of Eustace.

“Many a long mile from here; I will tell thee more anon.”

“Did he return of his own free will?” thought the baron, but politeness forced him to wait his guest’s own time for the dialogue which he felt awaited him.

Meanwhile Etienne had regaled Wilfred with a succession of scornful glances, which, strange to say, did not affect the latter much—­deeper emotions had swallowed up the minor ones, and he could disdain the imputation of cowardice, although he could not but feel that his attempted flight would be ascribed by every one to fear of the combat, which had been offered to, and accepted by him, and from which he could not otherwise have saved himself.