“Oh father, let it not be long!”

“That is in God’s hands; abide patiently and wait thou on the Lord, and He shall make thy path plain.  Now eat; I will not say one word more till thou art full.”

Poor Wilfred did his best, and ate the last meal he was ever to eat under that fated roof.  The good fathers never suspected the real design of their remorseless enemy.

The supper over, beneath those beams which were soon to fall blazing upon their fated inmates, the lad bid a last farewell to the good prior, to whom he had transferred the affection he once felt for his dear parents.  He fell on his shoulder, he wept, embraced, and parted.  The good prior wept, too.  They never met again.

“Take care of the precious lad, Father Kenelm; remember thou hast the hope of Aescendune with thee.”

They entered the little “punt” very quietly.  The night was warm, but fortunately obscure.  They unmoored, and dropped down the stream in perfect silence, listening to the bell as it tolled for compline.

At length they reached the place the prior had indicated.  They left the boat, and entered the forest in safety, utterly undiscovered—­here, only Father Kenelm’s accurate knowledge of the place could have availed them in the darkness.

In three hours they had traversed ten woodland miles, and drew near the quagmires.  The path became fearfully intricate, and Wilfred was startled by the marsh fires, while Father Kenelm began to pray for the poor souls—­he somehow supposed them to be, or to represent, poor silly wandering souls—­the while the night owl sang a dismal chorus to his ditty.  They followed a devious winding road—­in and out—­with much care, the father holding Wilfred’s hand all the time, until they emerged and found themselves ascending between two steep banks.  It was a narrow valley, through which a brook poured its waters into the desolation beneath.

At the summit they stopped and rested for a few minutes.  It was not, as may be imagined, very high; but beneath lay the whole extent of the Dismal Swamp.  It was after midnight.

“What can that brightness in the sky portend, my child?  There must be some dreadful fire; and, alas! it looks as if in the neighbourhood of Aescendune!”

“I hope it is the castle.”

The poor monk was very much alarmed; he feared it might be the monastery, and the reader knows he was right.

Now the heavens were lit up with intense brightness, now it faded again.  It was long before they left the summit and the view of the reddened sky.

“May it not be the northern lights?”

“Nay, my son, it is south of us, and they never look quite like this.  I fear me mischief is abroad, and shall not be happy till I get me home again tomorrow.”

Poor Father Kenelm, the woods were now his sole home.

At length, as the brightness disappeared, they continued along the brook, until they reached a wide extent of flat meadow ground traversed by the stream, separated by low hills from the morass.