As they rode rapidly and silently along, they saw in the distance, with what bitter feelings may be imagined, the Norman castle of Warwick, where at that moment the Conqueror himself was reposing, and where the Norman heir was perhaps counting the hours, until daylight should arouse him to go and seize upon his inheritance.  Onward they rode, conducted with the greatest skill and success by their guide from the Camp of Refuge, Leofric of Deeping, who entertained them by the way, when circumstances permitted, by many a story about Hereward and his merry men, each one of whom he said was a match for three Normans, while Hereward would not turn his back upon seven at once.

When the east grew red with the coming light they were traversing an immense tract of wild forest land, bright with the gorse, then in flower, and tenanted only by myriads of rabbits; here they came upon a grassy dell, with plenty of good grazing for their horses, and a clear stream running through the bottom.

“We shall scarce find a better place than this to rest,” said their guide; “I know the spot well.  When a boy my grandfather lived in that ruined farmhouse which you can see peeping through the trees; I remember I was just tall enough to look over yon wall.”

“Is it in English hands now?” said Wilfred, anxiously.

“It is desolate—­waste—­ruined.  The Normans butchered the inmates long since, God knows why, save that they gave shelter to some proscribed fugitives, who were being hunted like wild beasts.  They were not my own kinsfolk; by God’s blessing my grandparents died while Edward was yet alive.  I often feel grateful that they did not live to see these evil days.”

They hobbled the horses, and took their own repast by the side of the stream.  Each man had brought rations for two days with him, and there was no lack.

Then, after carefully setting sentinels in each direction, they slept under the shade of the trees.  The moss was a delicious couch, the day was warm, and the murmur of the little stream, united to the hum of the insects, lulled them to sleep.

It was not till after midday that Wilfred awoke.  He found Leofric already on foot, stretching himself after his nap.

“I am going to look at the old place,” said he; “it stimulates my feeling of hatred to the Normans.  Will you come with me and see their work?”

They crossed two or three fields lying fallow—­indeed, no hand of man had been busy there for more than a year; soon they came upon the blackened ruins of a house, of which, however, some portions had escaped the general conflagration; upon which Leofric observed: 

“This was the work of Ivo Taille-Bois {xxi}, a Norman woodcutter, whom the duke has manufactured into a noble, and set to tyrannise over free-born Englishmen.  Like a fiend he ever loves to do evil, and when there is neither man, woman, nor child to destroy, he will lame cattle, drive them into the water, break their backs, or otherwise destroy them.”