Wilfrid felt these things very acutely, and the more so because the former kindness of his youthful lord had won his earliest affections.  But he now bore all his capricious changes of temper with meekness.  It was only in his unrestrained confidence with his widowed mother that he ever uttered a complaint of the young Atheling, and then he spoke of him in sorrow, not in anger; for he rightly attributed much of Prince Edwin’s unamiable conduct to the pernicious influence which the artful Brithric had, through flattery, obtained over his mind.

“Patience, my son,” would the widowed Ermengarde say in those moments when Wilfrid sought relief by venting his anguish in tears on the bosom of his tender mother, “patience, my son; true greatness is shown most especially in enduring with magnanimity the crosses and trials which are of every-day occurence.  Let sorrow, sickness, or any other adversity touch Prince Edwin, and he will learn the difference between a true friend and a false flatterer.  In due time, your worth will be proved, and your victory will be a glorious one:  for it will be the triumph of virtue!”

CHAPTER III.

The day which Ermengarde had predicted was close at hand.  An infectious fever broke out in the college, which, in several instances, proved fatal to those who were attacked by it, and spread such terror throughout the college that when Prince Edwin fell sick he was forsaken by almost every living creature.  His faithful page, Wilfrid, however, watched him day and night, and supplied him with drink and nourishment, which were brought to him by the widow Ermengarde.

For six days the young Atheling was insensible of everything but his own sufferings, and gave no indications of consciousness.  On the night of the seventh, as Wilfrid was supporting upon his bosom the head of his afflicted master, and holding a cup of cooling drink to his parched lips, he murmured, “Is it you, my faithful Brithric?”

“No,” replied the page, “Brithric is not present, neither hath he entered this chamber, my lord, since the term of your sore sickness commenced.”

“Surely, then, he must himself be sick, perhaps dead,” said the prince.

“No,” replied Wilfrid, with a smile; “he is only fearful of exposing himself to the contagion of the fever.”

“Who, then, hath nursed and attended upon me so kindly during these many days of suffering while I have lain here unconscious of everything around me?”

“Your servant Wilfrid,” replied the page.

“And where then are my chamberlains and attendants, by whom I ought to be surrounded?” asked the prince, raising his languid head from the bosom of Wilfrid, and looking round the spacious but deserted room of state, in which he lay.

“They are all overcome by the terrors of the contagion,” said Wilfrid.

“And why did you not flee from it also, Wilfrid?” asked the prince.