“Thou fool!” said Etienne, forgetting his customary courtesy to his equals, “thou hast spoilt all—­we may never learn the truth now.”

“He was too brave a lad to be tortured,” said Pierre, upon whom the patient courage of the sufferer had made a very deep impression, “so I gave him the coup de grace.”

“My lord, had we not better depart?  These English may return at any moment; tomorrow we may come with all the force at our command.”

“We will sup first at all events.  That soup smells good; it will put a little warmth into our bodies, and it is worth a little risk to have the chance of drying our clothes at this fire.”

So they left the body of poor Eadwin where it had fallen, and being now spent with hunger, they poured the soup into basins and ate it greedily.

Suddenly the door was burst open, the room was filled with their foes—­uplifted weapons, deadly blows, cries, curses in English and French—­in short, such a melee ensued that it passes all our power to describe it.  The fire was kicked over the place—­blood hissed as it ran over the floor and met the hot embers—­the torches were speedily extinguished or converted into weapons—­men rolled over and over in deadly strife, seeking where to plant the dagger or knife—­they throttled each other, or dashed hostile heads against the floor—­they tore the hair or beard as they struck beneath, not with the fist, but the knife—­on rolled the strife—­the very building shook—­till there was a sudden lull, and in a few more minutes it was peace.

A dozen Englishmen stood upright amidst prostrate corpses, many streaming with blood; while many bodies lay on the floor, eight of which were discovered, when the lights were rekindled, to be Normans.

Only one Norman yet lived, and he was wounded—­it was Pierre.

The young Breton lay on the ground, grievously wounded in several places, yet not mortally—­and fully conscious—­when he heard an eager voice inquire in a tone of authority: 

“What is the meaning of all this?  How did they cross the morass?  Are many of our people hurt?”

He looked up; the voice startled him.  Well it might—­it was to him a voice from the grave.

There, in the doorway, living and well, strong and well-liking, in the glare of torchlight, stood his former companion, Wilfred of Aescendune.

Their eyes met, and they gazed fixedly, yes, and proudly, upon each other; but the glance of Wilfred softened first.  He saw before him the only one of his former companions who had ever given him a friendly word, whom misapprehension alone had estranged from him, which he (Wilfred) had refused to remove.

“We meet again, Pierre de Morlaix.”

“Thou art not dead, then.  How didst thou escape?  Who burnt the monastery?”

“Art thou so demented as to ask me?  Dost thou think English torches fired an English house of God?  Times are changed now, and thou seest me surrounded by the vassals of my father’s house, who own no lord but their natural chieftain.  But where is Etienne?  We have watched your party all day, and know that the young tyrant was their leader.  Is he amongst the dead?”