“Bring my son Wilfred down to the hall.”

The attendants hasted, and soon reappeared with the English heir of Aescendune.

He was calm and composed—­that unhappy youth; he looked the baron straight in the face, he did not honour Etienne or any one else with a single glance; but waited to be questioned.

“Wilfred of Aescendune,” said his stepfather, “why didst thou absent thyself yesterday, and traverse dangerous roads without permission?”

No answer.

“Didst thou fly because thou fearedst the combat, which thine own unmannerly insolence had brought upon thee?”

“No.”

It was the only word Wilfred spoke, and that with emphasis.  Etienne sneered.

“Perhaps thou mightest not have fled hadst thou known that the combat would have been a mere form.  I had instructed the marshal of the lists to prevent deadly results.”

Again Etienne cast a look at his companions, which seemed to give the lie to these words.

“Wilt thou promise to make no further attempt to leave the demesne without permission if thou art released from superveillance?”

“No,” once more.

“Then I will no longer retain the charge of thee.  Thou shalt go and do penance at the priory of thy sainted namesake, till thou dost come to a better mind.  I will send thee after supper, and give fitting charge to Father Elphege.”

Wilfred was forced to sit down during the meal, but he ate nothing.

When it was ended, the baron called old Osbert the seneschal and gave his instructions.  They led the youth away; he did not return the baron’s half-ironical salutation, but departed with his guards in silence.

High was the wassail in the castle that night, and many casks of wine were broached; at length all sought their couches and slept heavily.

But in the middle of the night many sleepers were aroused by the cry of fire! yet so heavy with wine were they, that few arose; hut most heard it as a man hears some sound in his sleep, which he half suspects to belong to dreamland, and turns again to his pillow.

Imagine the surprise with which such men (including Etienne, Pierre, and the other late companions of the unhappy Wilfred) learned that the monastery had caught fire accidentally in the night, and that so sudden had been the conflagration that none had escaped.

None!  No; so far as men could discover.  The priory built by Offa of Aescendune was a heap of smoking embers, and monks were there none, neither had any heard aught of the English heir of Aescendune.

The poor English who yet remained in the village were weeping over their lost friends, and the very Norman men-at-arms were hushed in the presence of their sorrow.

The shades of evening fell upon the desolate ruins, but nought had occurred to alleviate the calamity:  all seemed to have perished unaided in the suddenness of their destruction—­a thing improbable—­unheard of—­yet so it was.