ction with Odo of Bayeux blessed the
Conqueror's banners, and ministered in things sacred to the "pious"
invaders.

He wandered, this good brother, from one dying sinner to another,
absolving the penitent, and ministering to the parched lips of many
a sufferer. His own long brown garment was stiff at the extremities
with gore, but he heeded it not.

And at last, when he came to a heap of slain just where the Normans
had first hewn their way through the English entrenchments, after
the sham retreat had drawn away so many of their defenders, he was
attracted by the sound of convulsive weeping.

There, kneeling beside the body of an English warrior, he saw a boy
of some fourteen years, sobbing as if his young heart would break,
while he addressed the slain one with many a plaintive cry.

"Father, wake; speak but once more to me; thou canst not be dead.
Oh my father, only once more speak to thy son."

"Alas! my poor boy, he will speak no more until the earth gives up
her dead, and refuses to cover her slain; but we will comfort his
soul with masses and prayers. How didst thou come hither, my poor
child?"

"I followed him to the battle, and he bade me tarry by the stuff;
but when all was lost Guthlac ran away, and I came hither to die
with him if need should be. Oh my father, would God I had died for
thee."

"Father, good father, what clamour is this?" said a deep voice,
"some English lad mourning a sire?"

"Even so, my Lord of Blois. The poor child mourns his father."

"There be many mourners now. William Malet, with a lady whom Harold
loved, and two good monks of Waltham, have just found the body of
the perjured usurper. The face was so mangled, that no man might
know him, but she recognised him by a mark on his body. So they
have carried it away by the duke's command to bury it by the shore
which he strove so vainly to guard."

"Oh may I but bear his body home to my poor mother," moaned the
lad.

"We will ask the Conqueror to grant thy petition, poor mourner,"
said the sympathising monk.

"William will not refuse his prayer, father, if thy superior, the
Bishop of Coutances, urges it; he is all-powerful just now," said
Eustace of Blois. "The poor boy shall plead himself. Come, my lad,
to the pavilion; there shalt thou ask for and obtain the poor boon
thou cravest."

The unhappy Wilfred--for our readers have of course recognised the
young heir of Aescendune--repressed his sobs, strove to wipe away
his te