“Sing, bards,” he cried out; “has no minstrel a new strain?”

They exerted themselves to the utmost; and Wilfred, determined to rise to the occasion, threw off his sadness, ceased to speculate as to the chances of the insurrection {xvi}; that night, at least, he would give to joy—­he would encourage his people who loved him so faithfully by rejoicing with them.

So the song and the banquet lasted until the midnight hour, and the castle of Hugo echoed the old forgotten songs of the glories of Anglo-Saxon England.

CHAPTER XVIII.  AT THE ABBEY OF ABINGDON.

Upon the banks of the Isis, about eight miles above its junction with the Tame, stood the ancient town of Abingdon, which had grown up around the famous monastic foundation of Ina, King of Wessex {xvii}.

The river divides, at this point, into three branches, encircling two islands {xviii}; partly on the southern bank, and partly on the nearest of these islands, stood the mighty Abbey, one of the largest and most renowned of the Benedictine houses of England.

And on the other island the Conqueror himself had built a country seat whither he often retired, as convenient headquarters, whence to enjoy the pleasures of the chase in the vale of White Horse, famous in the annals of the Anglo-Saxon race for Alfred’s great victory over the Danes.

Few, alas, of the old English inhabitants lingered in the town, save as bondsmen; few of the old English brethren, save as drudges.

For had they not alike incurred the wrath of the victor?  Had not the chief vassals of the abbey led their men forth to fight under the hapless Harold?—­nevermore, alas! to return—­and had not the monks blessed their banner and sanctified their patriotic zeal?

And since, on the one hand, William claimed to be the lawful sovereign, and, on the other, the Pope had blessed the invaders, it was clear that the Godrics and Thurkills who had committed their cause to God before the wonder-working black cross of St. Mary’s Altar, were but rebels, and that the monks who had blessed them were schismatics.

Hence the Normans in their hour of victory had cleared out laymen and monks alike, root and branch, and the French tongue had superseded the good old Anglo-Saxon dialect in the district.

It was a fine May evening, and the country was lovely in the foliage of early summer.

A boat was descending the Isis, rowed by six stout rowers; it was evidently from Oxenford, for the men bore the badges of Robert D’Oyly, the Norman lord of that city, who had just built the tower which yet stands, gray and old, beside the mound raised on Isis banks by Ethelfleda, lady of Mercia, daughter of the great Alfred, and sister of Edward the Elder.

In the stern of the boat sat Etienne de Malville.

He had journeyed first to Warwick, where he met the fugitives from Aescendune, and heard their story; burning with revenge, he had sought the aid of Henry de Beauchamp, the Norman governor of the city; but that worthy, seeing the whole countryside in rebellion, bade Etienne repair to the king for further aid, while he himself shut his gates, provisioned his castle, and promised to hold out against the whole force of the Midlands, until the royal banner came to scatter the rebels, like chaff before the winds.