“Has my son returned?”

“He has not come back yet, my lord.  Shall I delay the banquet?”

“Are all the others in?”

“Sir Eustace de Senville has not yet come from the forest.”

“Let it be delayed half an hour.”

The old servant shook his head—­the roast meats were done to a turn, and he feared the reputation of the ten cooks, who had toiled the long afternoon before the fires, might suffer.

The baron paced impatiently up and down his chamber.

There is some redeeming feature in the hearts of the worst of us:  even Lady Macbeth could not herself slay King Duncan, “he looked so like her father,” and the one weak point in the armour of proof—­of selfishness, we should say—­which encrusted Hugo de Malville, was his love for his son.

Etienne was to him as the apple of his eye; and little wonder—­the qualities which, we doubt not, nay, we trust, disfigure that amiable youth in the minds of our gentle readers—­his pride, his carelessness for the bodily or mental sufferings of others—­all these things were nought to the Norman noble, he loved to see his son stark and fierce, and smiled as he heard of deeds which better men would have sternly refused to condone.

He almost longed for war—­for some rebellion on the part of the English—­that Etienne might flesh his sword and win his spurs, and, as we see, that wish, at least, was gratified.

But it was this very love for his own son which had made the old baron so unloving a stepfather to Wilfred, in whom he could only see the rival of his boy, and both mother and son were obstacles to be removed—­the old sinner did not sin for himself, it must be confessed.

Half an hour passed.  Sir Eustace, the last who arrived that night, came in, and the baron, to the great relief of the cooks, descended to the hall.

Still he was far too proud and jealous of his dignity to show his anxiety in voice or mien.  He descended calmly to the banquet, the chaplain blessed the food, and the tired and hungry nobles fell to at the high table, while their retainers feasted below.

It was a bright and dazzling scene:  at the head of the hall sat the Baron and his chief guests upon a platform.  Above it hung trophies of war or the chase—­arms borne in many a conflict, swords, spears, arrows—­to each of which some legend was attached; the antlers of the giant stag, the tusk of the wild boar, the head and bill of some long-necked heron.

Below, at right angles to the high table, were three other tables, not fixtures, but composed of boards spread over trestles, and covered with coarse white cloths.  At these sat the retainers, the men whose rank did not entitle them to sit at the high table, to the number of some three hundred—­there was not an Englishman amongst them.