She advanced to his side, and seemed moved by compassion as she gazed upon the wounded, bloodstained form.

“How young he is, poor lad.  Ought I to help him?  Yes, it must be right to do so.  How the cry of hounds and men comes up the glen!”

“Wake up, wake up!” she cried, and sprinkled water upon his face.

He rose up as if from a deep sleep.

“Mother, what is it?”

“Come with me; I will give thee shelter.”

His senses returned sufficiently for him both to comprehend her meaning and his own danger, and he followed mechanically.  Just above, the waters of the stream, dammed up for the moment, had formed a little pond, surrounded by trees, save on one side, where was a little garden of herbs, and in its centre, close by the stream, stood a humble cot.

It was built of timber; posts had been driven at intervals into the ground, willow twigs had been woven in and out, the interstices filled with the clay which was abundant at the edge of the pond—­and so a weather-proof structure had been built.  There was no chimney, only a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape, above the place for the fire.

Within, the floor was strewn with rushes; there was a table, two or three rough chairs made of willow, a few household implements.

At one extremity a curtain, made of skins of wolf or deer, was drawn across the room, beyond which was a couch, a kind of box filled with rushes and leaves, over which lay a blanket and coverlets, of a softer material than one would have expected to find in a peasant’s hut of the period.

Many other little articles seemed to have been destined for a prouder dwelling; but all besides betokened decent poverty.  All was clean, and there could be little danger of hunger in the settlement, while the woods were full of game, and their little fields were fruitful with corn.

Into this abode the old dame led her guest.

“Thou art Norman,” she said.

“I am the son of the lord of Aescendune.  If thou canst aid me to escape my foes, thou shalt name thy own reward.”

“Not all the gold thou hast would tempt me to aid thee; but the love of One who died for us both forbids me to give thee up to death.  Thou art too young, poor youth, to be answerable for thy father’s sins.”

A proud speech was on his lips, but prudence prevailed, and the worthy cub of the old wolf determined to wear sheep’s clothing till his claws were grown again.

“The saints reward thee,” he said, “since no other reward thou wilt have.”

He could say no more, but staggered into her hut, his strength quite gone.

Nearer and nearer drew the cry of hounds and men.

“Save me if thou canst,” he said.

She took him behind the curtain, made him lie down on the couch, which was her own, and covered him completely over with a coverlet.  Then she charged him to lie quiet, whatever happened, and shut the door of her hut.