They dismounted within the courtyard, and Hugo made a certain communication to the seneschal.  The latter came up to Wilfred as he stood listlessly in the crowd, the object of many a scornful glance.

“The baron, your father, bids you to follow me.”

The old retainer led the way up a staircase.  On the third floor there was a chamber with a small loophole to serve as window, through which nothing larger than a cat could pass.  There was furniture—­a rough table and chair, a rude bed, and mattress of straw.

“You are to remain here until my lord comes to release you.”

The prisoner entered the chamber, and threw himself wearily on the bed, the door slammed with a heavy sound behind him, the steps of the gaoler (was he any better?) died away in the distance, and all was still, save a faint murmur from the courtyard below, or from the great hall, where the banquet was even now served.

Hours passed away, and a light step was heard approaching—­it was certainly not the baron’s.  Soon a voice was heard through the crevices of the rough planks which formed the door.

“Wilfred, art thou here?”

“I am.  Is it thou, Pierre?”

“It is.  Why didst thou flee the combat?  Thou hast disgraced thyself, and me, too, as thy friend.”

“I cannot tell thee.”

“Was it not fear, then?”

“It was not.”

“Then at least vouchsafe some explanation, that I may justify thee to the others.”

“I cannot.”

“Thou wilt not.”

“If thou wilt have it so.”

“Farewell, then; I can be no friend to a coward.”

And the speaker departed:  Wilfred counted his steps as he went down the stairs.  One pang of boyish pride—­wounded pride—­but it was soon lost in the deeper woe.

A few more minutes and the warder brought the lad his supper.  He ate it, and then, wearied out—­he had had no rest during the previous night as the reader is aware, and had been in the saddle for twenty hours—­wearied out, he slept.

And while he slept the door softly opened, and the baron entered.  At the first glance he saw the lad was fast asleep, as his heavy and regular breathing indicated.  He did not awake him, but gazed upon the features of the boy he had so deeply injured, with an expression wherein there was no lingering remorse, but simply a deep and deadly hatred.  At length he was about to awake the sleeper, when he saw the end of a packet of parchment protrude from the breast of the tunic.  The baron drew it softly out.

It was the letter of Father Elphege to the Bishop of Coutances.

The baron was scholar enough to read it—­few Normans were so, and fewer English nobles; but he was an exception.  He read and knew all; he read, and blanched a deadly white as he did so; his knees shook together, and a cold sweat covered his face.

It was known, then; to how many?  Probably only to the prior and Wilfred, for it was but a dying confession of yesterday, as he gathered from the letter.