Signs of life there were none, save when the bittern rose from its nest, amidst the long reeds or sedgy grass, or the moor fowl flew over the surface of the inky water, which here and there collected into pools.  The feeble hum of insects filled the air, but all else was peace and solitude.

Save that there was a sign of life on the farther side of the Swamp—­a solitary figure half concealed by bushes, stood watching on a promontory of firm land, looking anxiously—­from his slight elevation over the surface of the fen.

He was an aged man, who had seen some ninety summers; his long beard descended below the girdle which confined his brown tunic at the waist.  It was Haga, the father of Ordgar.

“My eyes are not what they were, and I see no sign as yet.  Ah, here comes little Siward!”

A boy of some twelve years approached him very silently, as if some serious business was about to be transacted, of such nature as to subdue boyish loquacity.

“Come hither, Siward, my grandchild, and lend me thine eyes and ears, for mine are now dulled by age.  Dost thou hear aught?”

“I hear the bittern boom, and the woodpecker tap, but that is all.”

“Sit down by my side, and watch with me; the time is at hand.”

“Will my father be with them?”

“He will, my child.”

“And he will come home safely to us, when all is over?”

“That is as God wills, dear child; his life belongs to his country.  Thou mayst pray for him,” he added, as he saw tears rise to the eyes of the boy.

“I do,” said the child.

They sat awhile in perfect silence, when at last the boy appeared to listen intently.

“Grandfather,” he said, “I hear the sound of many feet.”

“Art quite sure?”

“Yes, and now I see men advancing from the shade of yonder thicket of beech.”

“And I see them too; go and warn Tosti, Sexwulf, Ulf and Frithgift, and be sure that thou keepest out of the fen thyself.”

“Only thou wilt bring father back home with thee?”

“By God’s help, my child.”

At this moment a numerous and warlike band of Normans emerged from the woods, in full view, and paused on the edge of the Swamp.

“Now they come forth to their doom.  The Lord hath delivered them into our hands,” said Haga.

Foremost amongst them the old man recognised his son Ordgar; his arms were bound, and a cord attached to the thongs which confined them, held by a man-at-arms.

We will transport ourselves to the other side of the Swamp.

Hugo sat there on his steed, in the full panoply of warlike pride, throbbing with the desire of vengeance, and with the hope of recovering his son—­whom he was destined never to see again; for justice, although her pace may seem tardy, seldom fails to overtake evildoers, even in this world; and he who, as men thought, had slain others by fire, was destined to perish by the same avenging element.