“Thy destiny has, indeed, been nearly accomplished, and that thou art the survivor of the party with which thou didst invade the Dismal Swamp is owing to this widow woman,” said the good father in the patient’s own tongue.

Etienne fell back on his pillow and seemed trying to unravel the tangled thoughts which perplexed him.  Once more the dame came and brought him a cooling drink.  He drank it, thanked her, and fell back with a sigh.

Yes, it all came to him now, as clear as the strong daylight—­and with it came remorse.  He had cruelly slain young Eadwin, and the mother of the murdered lad—­for he knew her—­had rescued him from what his conscience told him would have been a deserved fate, at least at the hands of the English.

There are crises in all men’s lives—­and this was one in the life of Etienne—­when they choose good or evil.

And from that time, new impressions had power over him.  He lay in deep remorse, knowing that he still owed his life to the forbearance, and more than forbearance, with which he had been treated.

“If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink:  for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.”

Etienne now felt these coals of fire.

He was not all pride and cruelty.  His education had made him what he was, and probably, under the same circumstances, with such a father and the training of a Norman castle, many of my young readers who have detested his arrogance would have been like him, more or less.

“Their lot forbids, nor circumscribes alone, Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines.”

But now the generosity which lay hidden deep in his heart was awakened; the holy teachings which, in his childhood he had heard at his mother’s knee—­a mother who, had she lived, might have influenced his whole conduct—­came back to him.  There were many pious mothers, after all, in Normandy.  Pity they had not better sons.

“Forgive us our trespasses.”

The daily ministrations of the poor childless widow, whom he had made childless, were a noble commentary on these words.

“Mother,” he said, one day, “forgive me—­I have much to be forgiven—­I cannot tell thee all.”

“Nay, thou needst not; thou art forgiven for the love of Him who has forgiven us all.”

For a long time yet he lingered a prisoner on his couch; for fever had so weakened him that he could hardly support his own weight.

But at length convalescence set in, and his strength returned; but he could only take exercise—­which was now necessary to his complete recovery—­when Father Kenelm was at hand to act as a scout, and warn him to retire in the case of the approach of any Englishman; for although he had adopted the English dress, yet his complexion and manner would have betrayed him to any observer close at hand.

At length came the day of deliverance.