In former Chronicles we have described the old hall of Aescendune, as it stood in Anglo-Saxon days; it was then rather a home, a kind of “moated grange,” than a fortress.

But when Hugo the Norman took possession, he could not endure to live in a house incapable of standing a regular siege.  And well he might have such feelings, when he remembered that he lived in the midst of a subject population, to whom his tyranny had rendered him and his men-at-arms hateful.

So he sent at once for Ralph of Evreux, a skilful architect, whose line lay in the raising of castles and such like, who knew how to dig the dungeon and embattle the keep, and into his hands he committed the rebuilding of the castle of Aescendune.

All was bustle and activity.  The poor thralls of the estate were “worked to death;” stone had to be brought from an immense distance, for wood might burn if subjected to fiery arrows; the moat was deepened and water let in from the river; towers were placed at each angle, furnished with loopholes for archers; and over the entrance was a ponderous arch, with grate for raining down fiery missiles, and portcullis to bar all approach to the inner quadrangle, which was comparatively unchanged.

In short, the whole place was so thoroughly strengthened, that the cruel baron might laugh to scorn any attempts of the unhappy English to storm it, should they ever reach such a pitch of daring.

Below the castle walls the new priory was rapidly rising from the ruins of the olden structure.  It was to be dedicated to St. Denys—­for the Normans did not believe in any English saints—­and then it was to be inhabited by a colony of monks from the diocese of Coutances-outre-mer.

This was to take place in order to please Bishop Geoffrey, who had made some inconvenient inquiries into the circumstances connected with the burning of the old abbey and the death of Wilfred.

But no awkward circumstances came to light; if there had been any foul play, the actors therein kept their own counsel.

An incident which happened about this time caused no little comment.

It was an October evening; the inmates of the castle (now properly so called) were assembled at supper in the great hall, after a long day’s hunting of the wild boar.

In the middle of the meal, Pierre de Morlaix, who had tarried in the forest, entered, looking as pale as a ghost and very excited in manner, as if some extraordinary event had upset the balance of his mind.  It was not without a very apparent effort that, remembering the composure of demeanour exacted by the feudal system from all pages, he repressed his excitement and took his usual place.

The baron, however, had marked his discomposure, and was curious to know its cause.

“Is aught amiss, Pierre?” he asked.

Pierre stammered, hesitated, then replied that there was nothing amiss, only that he believed he had seen a ghost, or something very much like one.