It was a day in early April.  The east winds of March had dried the earth, the sun had now some power, and the trees were bursting into leaf in every direction.  It was one of those first days of early summer, which are so delicious from their rarity, and seem to render this earth a paradise for the time being.

The convalescent was out of doors, inhaling the sweet breeze, in the immediate proximity of the hut, when the good father appeared.

“My son,” he said, “dost thou feel strong enough to travel?”

“I do, indeed, father,” said the youth, his heart bounding with delight; “but may I go, and without any ransom?”

“Surely; we have not preserved thy life from love of filthy lucre.”

“I feel that father, in my very heart; but hast thou no pledge to demand?  Dost thou trust all to my gratitude?”

“Thou wilt never fight against the poor fugitives here, my son?”

“Nor betray the path to their retreat” added Etienne.

“That is already known,” said the father.

“Known! then war is at hand.”

“It is, and I would remove thee, lest harm should befall thee.  Thou wilt travel hence with me at once.”

“Before we start I would fain be shriven by thee, for I have grievously sinned, and to whom can I more fitly make my shrift? so that he who has ministered to the body may in turn minister to the soul.”

“There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth,” said the good monk, greatly moved, “and right gladly will I discharge mine office towards thee.”

The hour had come for Etienne to depart.  He had bidden farewell to the faithful Hilda.  His last words were—­“Thou hast lost one son, mother, but found another; if Etienne de Malville lives, thou shalt be recompensed one day.”

The two pedestrians left the hut and, keeping close along the border of the marsh, under the shadow of the trees, came at last to the little isthmus which joined the firm ground within the marsh, to a chain of woody hills.

The ground was so covered with vegetation and undergrowth that it was difficult to advance, save by one narrow path; but Etienne saw at once that in this direction the settlement could be assaulted at any time of the year with every chance of success.

The monk must have been aware also that he was betraying the secret of this approach to a Norman; but strangely enough, he did not seem to trouble about it at this juncture.

“Father,” said Etienne, “I would fain ask thee one question before we part.”

“Speak on, my son.”

“I would fain know, father, what murderous hand gave thy abbey to the flames—­a deed abhorred by all good men, whether Normans or English.”

“Thou dost not know then?”

“Surely not, father.”

“I may not tell thee whom all suspect; it is better for thy peace of mind that it should remain a mystery till God solve the riddle.”