“Verily I do, father.”

“And now come with me (leading him along a passage); look through this window.”

“Yes, there is another.  Why do they watch?”

“That the young Wilfred may not escape; they think we shall send him off again, as they know I did before.”

“How do they know, father?”

“They have read my letter to the bishop.”

“Then why have they sent him here?  I am quite bewildered.”

“That he may be sent again, entrapped, or slain, and failing that, I know not what they will do.  But we will outwit them; thou shalt take him this very night to his poor thralls who dwell in the swamp.  They will rejoice to see him, and will live or die for him, as seemeth best.”

“But since we are watched, how shall we escape?”

“By the river.  It is very dark:  thou must unmoor the boat and float down the stream for a full mile, without noise of oars, then enter the forest and place the precious boy in safety.”

“It shall be done, father.”

“And quickly.  Here he comes—­supper, and then thou must say thy compline on the river:  thou wilt go while all the rest are in the chapel, and mayst join us in spirit.”

The good prior then went to the church, through the great cloister.  The poor lad he loved was praying and weeping.

“Wilfred,” said the prior, “dost thou feel better now?  Hast thou poured out thy soul before thy Heavenly Father?”

“Better? yes, a little better now, father.”

“Come with me to the refectory.”

They left the church.

“Now eat a good meal.”

“I cannot eat—­it chokes me, father.”

“Thou must, my dear son; it is a duty, for thou must travel far tonight.”

“Thank God.”

“But it is not to Oxford, my son; thou wouldst not outlive the night.  It is that very journey they want thee to essay.”

“Why?”

“That they may slay thee by the way.”

“I may have my father’s sword, which hangs over his tomb, may I not?”

“Silly boy, what could one do against a score?  Nay, thou must go and hide for the present in the forest—­thou rememberest ’Elfwyn’s Grange’?”

“Where my great grandfather hid from the Danes?  Yes, many a time have I gone there to shoot wild fowl, while my poor father was alive.”

“And thou knowest the buildings in the midst of the firm ground?”

“Well.”

“Thou hast never told thy Norman companions about them?”

“Never! they one and all think the morass a mere desert, a continuous swamp.”

“So much the better, my dear son, for more than half the poor folk who have deserted the village are there, and Father Kenelm will take thee to them, for he knoweth the way, ministering to them weekly as he does.”

“But why may I not stay here?”

“I dare not keep thee, dear child; I fear some plot against thy life; nay, the morass is the only safe place for thee till we can communicate with the bishop, who has once befriended thee and may do so again.”