“My son, I would fain ask thee of a youth in whom I am somewhat interested, and who is, I am told, yet alive, risen, as it were, from the dead—­Wilfred of Aescendune.”

Etienne’s face would have made a fine study for a painter, as he encountered the gaze of Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances.

The bishop drew the youth gently into a deep embrasure, where a curtain before the opening veiled a window seat, for the feast was now over, and the guests were mingling in general conversation.

“Father,” said Etienne “am I, whom he has made an orphan, a fit witness?”

“My son,” said Geoffrey, “I respect an orphan’s feelings, yet in justice to the lad whom, as thou sayest, I once befriended, I must ask a few questions.  He appeared to me naturally affectionate and ingenuous—­one who would love those who treated him well, but who would grievously resent scorn and contempt; tell me honestly, didst thou receive him as a brother, as thou wert bound to do, considering the alliance between thy father and his mother, or didst thou regard him simply as thy rival?”

Etienne hesitated.

“My son, thou cravest knighthood; the true knight is bound to speak the truth.”

“I own, father, that I felt him my rival.”

“And never thought of him as a brother?”

“Never.”

“Then, naturally, this led to injurious words and contemptuous deeds?”

“I cannot deny it; nor do I now regret it, knowing what he is.”

“Perchance, my son, thou hast had much to do with making him what he is.  One more thing:  of course Wilfred would naturally sympathise with the old retainers of his father.  Tell me, didst thou ever ill-use them in his sight?”

“I may have done so sometimes.  But, my lord, you, who at the head of an army, recently sanctioned the mutilation of the rebels in Dorsetshire—­”

“My child, peace and war are different things, and in the latter, men are compelled to do that, from which in days of peace they would shrink, only that timely severity may prevent further bloodshed, and so save many Christian lives.  But I am speaking of what thou didst to thine own father’s vassals in time of peace—­didst thou ill-treat them before thy English brother?”

“I may have been sharp sometimes, and used the ashen twig freely.”

“Only the ashen twig?  My son, tell me all the story about the ‘young poaching churl’ who was the cause of such deadly enmity between you.”

Etienne told it with reluctance.

“Pray was the lad in any manner dear to Wilfred?”

“He was his foster brother,” said Etienne, covering his face as conscience smote him, for he remembered the death of Eadwin, and the way in which the mother of the murdered boy had returned good for evil.

“Then, my son, thou canst not acquit thyself of blame.”

“But even if I were in fault so far, father, the terrible events which have occurred since do not lie at my door—­the burning of the monastery, the death of my poor father.”