the eastern hills, over the valley of the Cherwell,
to see the sun arise above the heights of Headington.

It came at last--the signal of death: a huge arc of fire, changing
rapidly into a semi-circle, and then into a globe. All the earth
rejoiced around, but a shudder passed through the crowd.

The headsman leaned upon his axe, but no procession yet approached.

The sun was now a quarter of an hour high, when a murmur passed
through the crowd that something had happened. At length the murmur
deepened into a report that Wilfred had been found dead in his bed.

"Died," said some, "by the judgment of God."

"The better for him," said others.

And there were even those who murmured bitterly that they were
disappointed of the spectacle, which they had left their beds to
witness. Such unfeeling selfishness is not without example in
modern times.

Etienne left the roof, burning with indignation, suspecting some
trick to cheat him of his vengeance.

"Come into this cell," said the soft voice of Lanfranc.

Etienne obeyed.

There lay his young rival, cold and pale. Etienne doubted no
longer; death was too palpably stamped upon the face.

"Canst thou forgive now?" said Lanfranc. "His last message was one
of forgiveness for thee."

"I know not. An hour ago I thought no power on earth could make me;
but we have each suffered wrongs."

"Ye have."

"I do forgive, then; requiescat in pace."

"So shall it be well with thee before God," said the good prelate.

So Wilfred was buried in the vaults of St. Frideswide's church. The
Archbishop Lanfranc celebrated the funeral mass. It was noticed
with surprise that Bishop Geoffrey absented himself from the
function and the subsequent burial rites.

The week ended, as all weeks come to an end. Lanfranc had gone to
Canterbury. The Conqueror, assured by trusty reporters of the death
of Wilfred, rejoiced that so satisfactory an accident had befallen,
sparing all publicity and shame to one he could but admire, as he
ever admired pluck and devotion.

Geoffrey alone remained a guest at a monastic foundation hard by
St. Frideswide's.

The midnight bell has struck twelve--or, rather, has been struck
twelve times by the sexton, in the absence of machinery.

All is silence and gloom in the church of St. Frideswide, and upon
the burial ground around.

Three muffled figures stand in a recess of the cloisters.

"This is the door," said the sexton; "but, holy St. Frideswide, to