intervening, kept from his lips the one revelation
which might have endangered his safety--that he was himself the
murderer of the son of his preserver.

Sometimes Father Kenelm visited the hut, and although in his heart
he deeply regretted that Etienne had not shared the fate of his
companions, yet he was too much a Christian to frustrate the good
deed of poor old Hilda, by revealing the secret of his existence.

At length, some weeks after the commencement of his illness, after
days of parching thirst and delirious dreams, Etienne woke one
morning, conscious, and gazed dreamily about him.

The crisis had passed; he was no longer in danger from the fever,
and his senses were clear of the terrible and shadowy impressions
which had hung about him like a gigantic nightmare.

"Where am I? Who are you?"

"He is conscious, father," said the old woman. "What does he say?"
for Etienne spoke in Norman French.

"Thou hast been in great danger, my son, and this good woman hath
saved thee and sheltered thee from thy foes."

"Thanks, good mother."

There was a tone of deep feeling in his voice as he said these
words--"but what has passed? I have a confused remembrance of
hunting and being hunted, in a midnight forest, and of a deadly
combat in a dark chamber, from which I seemed to wake to find
myself here."

"Thy destiny has, indeed, been nearly accomplished, and that thou
art the survivor of the party with which thou didst invade the
Dismal Swamp is owing to this widow woman," said the good father in
the patient's own tongue.

Etienne fell back on his pillow and seemed trying to unravel the
tangled thoughts which perplexed him. Once more the dame came and
brought him a cooling drink. He drank it, thanked her, and fell
back with a sigh.

Yes, it all came to him now, as clear as the strong daylight--and
with it came remorse. He had cruelly slain young Eadwin, and the
mother of the murdered lad--for he knew her--had rescued him from
what his conscience told him would have been a deserved fate, at
least at the hands of the English.

There are crises in all men's lives--and this was one in the life
of Etienne--when they choose good or evil.

And from that time, new impressions had power over him. He lay in
deep remorse, knowing that he still owed his life to the
forbearance, and more than forbearance, with which he had been
treated.

"If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for
in so doing t