In the centre of the valley, if such it may be called, the brook divided, enclosing about an acre of ground, ere its streams met again, hurrying down to the morass.  Deep and rapid as it was, its course had been but short; a copious spring burst from the ground not half a mile above, whence streams issuing different ways helped to form the slimy waste which girt in this little island of firm land.

There, in the ground enclosed by the divided stream, was the home once inhabited by the ancestors of our young hero.  The monk knocked loudly at the door—­no watch was kept—­the marsh was their protection.

The dogs began to bark, and one or two which were loose came up, half disposed to make war upon the travellers, but they soon recognised the monk.  Lights were seen, the doors opened, two or three sunburnt faces appeared in the doorway.

“Sexwulf, I bring you a guest; look at him—­dost thou know him?”

“It is our young lord!”

Late though it was, the whole household was soon in uproar—­the welcome was grand—­and it was all the good father could do to prevent their arousing the whole village, to hear the joyful news that their young lord—­rescued from Norman tyranny, which had even threatened his life—­was there, relying on their protection, and that they, esteemed by the world as outlaws, were his chosen guardians.  They felt indeed, now, that they were not outlaws, but patriots fighting against successful tyrants—­the foes of their country; even as the brave Hereward (so they had heard) was fighting in the Camp of Refuge, amongst the fens of East Anglia.

And for Wilfred, the representative of a house which had ruled them for centuries, the son of their lamented lord, who had died so bravely at Senlac, they would one and all, if necessary, lay down their lives.

On the morrow, at eventide, Father Kenelm returned from Aescendune, horror struck, and brought the news of the burning of the abbey and the lamentable fate of his brethren.

There was not an Englishman whose heart was not moved with indignation and pity, nor one who failed to lay the burden of the deed where our readers have long since, we doubt not, laid it—­on the head of Hugo.

Hence those terrible reprisals our pages have recorded—­hence no mercy was shown to the merciless; and the war between the baron and his revolted dependants became one of extermination.

Every day brought accessions to their number; they were in communication with similar centres of disaffection in all parts of the midlands; and they confidently hoped for the day when the Normans should be expelled, and England be England again.

So Wilfred regarded his banishment in the forest as a temporary one at the best, and no longer looked for the aid of Normans, lay or ecclesiastical, to avenge his mother’s wrongs and his own; he would vindicate them by the strong hand.

He was now eighteen years of age, practised in all manly sports and warlike exercises, braced by daily use to support fatigue in mind and body, and every day rendered him more qualified to be the leader of his own people in the desperate warfare which lay between them and their rights.