val of Wilfred with a large body of fresh
enemies took place, and Etienne was yet within hearing when his
rival stood in the doorway and cried aloud:

"Etienne, son of Hugo, has been here and escaped; hunt him down,
men and dogs; he can hardly have passed the morass; we must not let
him live to become a murderer like his father."

The voice sounded like a summons from the dead. Etienne turned
pale; then the blood coursed rapidly through his veins, as he saw
by the light of the moon, which emerged just then from a cloud, his
hated rival, standing in front of the farmhouse--alive, and for the
time victorious.

Now all was clear. Wilfred was the cause of the calamities which
had fallen upon them, and the leader of the outlaws; and Etienne,
who, to do him justice, never suspected the true author of the
crime, doubted not that his rival had fired the monastery to
conceal his flight.

He felt an intense desire that he might grapple with his young foe
in the death struggle. Willingly would he have accepted such a
decision between their rival claims; but he was alone, wounded,
exhausted, a faithful dog his sole friend. He felt that the day of
vengeance must be postponed.

He spoke to the poor hound, and succeeded in making it comprehend
that he wanted "to go home." With that canine sagacity which
approaches very near to reason, the dog at once sought for the path
by which they had entered the morass, found it, and ran forward
eagerly. Etienne entered it, trembling with hope, when the dog
stopped, growled, and came back to its lord. The steps of many feet
were heard approaching.

"The place swarms with foes," muttered the hunter, who had become
in his turn the hunted.

A crash in the bush behind, and a huge English mastiff rushed upon
Etienne. His Norman sleuth hound threw himself upon the assailant
of his master, and a terrific struggle ensued. Etienne did not dare
wait to see its conclusion or help his canine protector, for the
noise of the conflict was drawing all the English there; but he
struggled back to the open, and ran along the inner edge of the
wood, hoping to find another track through the morass.

Suddenly he stumbled upon a swift little stream flowing down a bank
into the desert of slime. He felt at once that it must rise from
the chain of hills behind, and that by following it he might get
out of the swamp; it was all too like a mountain current to have
its origin in the level, and he determined to fol