But not until the service was concluded, when the gate only hung by one hinge, did the prior appear.

“Who are ye,” he cried, “who molest the house of God, and those who serve Him within?”

“A pious fox”—­“a holy fox”—­“smoke them out”—­“set the place on fire”—­“let them taste the fate which befell better men on this spot!”

“In whose name,” said the undismayed prior, “do ye summon me?”

“In the name of the descendant of him who first founded this priory—­of Wilfred, thane of Aescendune.”

“Ye mock us; he is dead.”

“Nay, he lives,” said a voice, and our youthful hero appeared on the scene, and addressed the astonished monk.

“Prior, go forth from the house thou and thy brethren have usurped, and make way for the true owners.  By my side stands the sole survivor of the brethren whom Hugo de Malville slaughtered, Father Kenelm, a Benedictine like thyself.  Admit him; he will tell thee all.”

“Since it may be no better, he shall come in.  If I open the gates for him, ye will not take advantage?”

“Stand back,” cried Wilfred, “let the holy monk enter alone.”

And, shortly after, Father Kenelm stood in the chapter house, and explained all to the astonished Norman brethren.  He told the story of the destruction of their predecessors, and pointed out the danger of resisting the now triumphant English, who felt themselves the avengers of their slaughtered ministers and friends, the former monks of St. Wilfred.

“It is well,” said the other; “we will go forth; thou speakest with justice, as brother to brother, and whatever befall thy companions, this shall be counted in thy favour if I have a tongue to speak.”

So the Norman prior and his monks took their way unharmed to the nearest house of their order.

It was night and dark clouds of smoke rolled heavenward, blotting out the fair stars from sight.  Silence dread and awful reigned over the Dismal Swamp, the scene of strife and suffering; the very beasts fled the spot, nor could the birds of night linger in the heated air.

But at Aescendune all was tumult and joy.  The English had advanced against an undefended stronghold, and Wilfred was at last, as his fathers had been, Lord of Aescendune.

There was a banquet that night in the castle hall.  In the old days of Roman triumphs, a man was placed behind the seat of the conquering general as he sat in the intoxication of success, and amidst the adulation of the multitude ever and anon whispered—­ “Memento to moriturum.”

So also there was an unseen attendant behind the chair of Wilfred.  In vain he strove to drive it away; the future would thrust itself upon him.

He had slaked his vengeance to the uttermost and had no remorse:  he had avenged father, mother—­the spiritual guides of his youth; still he had once heard, even from them—­“Vengeance is mine:  I will repay saith the Lord.”