Dead silence fell on all, for the belief in ghosts was universal in that age, as also in witchcraft and sorcery.

“A ghost, silly boy; what ghost?  Thy fancy hath converted some white cow into a spectre, in the uncertain light of the evening.”

“Nay, I saw him too plainly.”

“Saw whom?”

“Wilfred.”

There was a pause—­a dead pause, indeed; the baron changed colour and appeared to attempt to hide the perturbation of his spirit.

“Speak out, my son,” said the chaplain, “such things are sometimes permitted by Heaven.”

“Father, I was leaving the woods by the path which opens upon the summit of the hill, above the blasted oak, when I saw Wilfred, as when alive, standing on the summit, gazing upon the castle.  He was between me and the evening light, so, although it was getting dark, I could not mistake him.  He was deadly pale, and there was a look on his face I had never seen in life as he turned round and faced me.”

“Well! didst thou speak?”

“I dared not; my limbs shook and the hair of my head arose—­fearfulness and trembling seized hold of me.”

Etienne sneered just a little, yet probably he would not have behaved better, only he might not have owned his fear.

“Well, did he disappear?”

“I looked again, and I thought he retreated into the woods, for he was gone.”

“Did he seem to see you?”

“He did not speak.”

“Well,” said the chaplain, “we will say a mass for him tomorrow, to quiet his disturbed spirit, and he will, perhaps, vex us no more, poor lad.”

Etienne and Louis were very anxious to hear all the details of Pierre’s ghostly encounter, and questioned him very closely.  The former vowed he would have challenged the spectre; he did not fear Wilfred living, nor would he fear him dead.

The whole conversation at the castle hearth that night was about ghosts, demons, witches, warlocks, vampires, werewolves, and such-like; and about two hours before midnight our young Normans went to bed pleasantly terrified.

It was All Saints’ Day, the day appointed for the consecration of the new Priory of St. Deny’s.  The monks from Coutances had arrived.  The bishop of that diocese, already known to our readers, had reached Aescendune to perform the ceremony, by permission of the Bishop of Worcester, the sainted Wulfstan, in whose jurisdiction the priory lay; and there was a grand gathering of Norman barons and their retainers.

Strange it was that the same Epistle and Gospel which still serve in the English Prayer Book for that day should have been read in the ears of the Norman warriors—­that they should have heard the Beatitudes in the Gospel: 

“Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called the children of God: 
Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy:” 

—­and then gone forth to work out their own righteousness in the manner peculiar to their nation.  Well, perhaps there are not wanting similar examples of inconsistency in the nineteenth century.