“Who is their leader?”

“Haga, son of Ernulph.”

“Thy father?”

The victim seemed resolved to say no more.

“Place him on the rack again.”

But the fortitude of the captive did not seem equal to the last supreme trial.

“Hold!” he cried, “I will confess all.”

He owned that his father Haga was the leader of the outlaws, and being interrogated eagerly by the baron about Etienne, stated that the latter was detained as a prisoner in the Swamp, in case they should need a hostage.

“God be thanked!” said Hugo.

He could yet take that holy name on his murderous lips, and sooth to say he did feel gratitude.

The next step was to persuade Ordgar to guide the Normans through the Dismal Swamp to the English settlement.  A fresh application of the torture seemed needed to secure this desirable end, but the victim yielded when the pain was about to be renewed—­yielded to the weakness of his own flesh, combined with a promise from the baron that his father should not only be spared, but restored to the little farm he had, formerly occupied at Aescendune, under the last English thane.

In short, the bargain was concluded, and Ordgar, son of Haga, became the promised guide of the foes of his country.

CHAPTER XV.  RESTORED TO LIFE.

Day after day Etienne de Malville tossed upon the couch in the hut of the woman whom he had so cruelly bereaved, struggling against the throes of fever.  In his ravings he was prone to dwell upon all the scenes of horror he had recently passed through, and yet some Providence, intervening, kept from his lips the one revelation which might have endangered his safety—­that he was himself the murderer of the son of his preserver.

Sometimes Father Kenelm visited the hut, and although in his heart he deeply regretted that Etienne had not shared the fate of his companions, yet he was too much a Christian to frustrate the good deed of poor old Hilda, by revealing the secret of his existence.

At length, some weeks after the commencement of his illness, after days of parching thirst and delirious dreams, Etienne woke one morning, conscious, and gazed dreamily about him.

The crisis had passed; he was no longer in danger from the fever, and his senses were clear of the terrible and shadowy impressions which had hung about him like a gigantic nightmare.

“Where am I?  Who are you?”

“He is conscious, father,” said the old woman.  “What does he say?” for Etienne spoke in Norman French.

“Thou hast been in great danger, my son, and this good woman hath saved thee and sheltered thee from thy foes.”

“Thanks, good mother.”

There was a tone of deep feeling in his voice as he said these words—­“but what has passed?  I have a confused remembrance of hunting and being hunted, in a midnight forest, and of a deadly combat in a dark chamber, from which I seemed to wake to find myself here.”