“‘Art thou a priest, portly father?’ they said irreverently.

“‘Good lack,’ said I, ’I am, but little of worldly goods have I. Thou wilt not plunder God’s ambassadors of their little all?’

“’Nay!  But thou must come with us, and thy retinue must tarry here till we bring thee back.’

“‘You will not harm me?’ said I, fearing for my throat.  ’It is as thou hearest a hoarse one, and often sore, but it is my only one.’

“They laughed, and one said: 

“’Nay, father, we swear by Him that died that we will bring thee safe here again ere sundown.’

“So they led me away, and anon they blindfolded me, and led my horse.  What a mercy poor Whitefoot was sure footed, and did not stumble, for the way was parlous difficult.

“And at last they took the bandage from off mine eyes, and I saw I was in their encampment, in the innermost recesses of a swampy tangled wood.  There, in a sort of better-most cabin, lay a young man, dying—­wounded, as I afterwards learned, in an attack upon the Lord of Herst de Monceux.

“A goodly man of some thirty years was he, and a goodly end he made.  He told me his story, and as the lips of dying men speak the truth, I believed him.  He was the last representative of that English family which before the Conquest owned this very island and its adjacent woods and fields {24}.  He was very like thee—­he stands before me again in thee.  Didst thou never hear of thy descent before?”

“That he was of the blood of the old English thanes I knew, but fallen from their once high estate.  Had he lived he might have possessed me with the like feelings which prompted him:  hatred of the foreigner, rebellion to God’s dispensation, which gave the land to others.  Even now as I speak, Christian though I am, I feel that such things might be, but I count them now as dross, and seek a goodlier heritage than Michelham.”

“Poor lad!  What has brought thee here again?”

“The desire to do my Master’s will, and to preach the gospel to my kindred.  For if Christ shall make them free, then shall they be free indeed.”

“Hast thou heard of thy mother?”

“That she was dead.  The message came through Michelham.”

“I remember an outlaw came here one day and sought me.  He bade me send word to the boy we had (he said) stolen from them, that his mother was no more.  We did so; but who was thy mother by birth?”

“I know not.”

“But I know.”

“Tell me, father.”

“It is a sad story.”

“Let me hear it.”

“Not yet.  Go forth tomorrow.  Seek thy kindred, and if thou livest thou shalt know.  Tell me, what is thine age?”

“I have seen twenty years.”

“When thou hast attained thy twenty-first birthday, I may reveal this secret—­not before.  Until then my lips are sealed; such was the will of thy father.”

“Shall I find the outlaws easily?”