hened themselves in the
land; then, preceded and attended by pages in sumptuous tunics of
linen, fringed and girded with cloth of gold, the happy pair, he on
his war steed, she on her white palfrey--he dark as the raven, she
fair as the lily.

Wilfred and Etienne were walking side by side in the procession,
and it was impossible to help being struck by the contrast in their
appearance--the one supple and lithe in every limb, with dark,
restless eyes, and quick, nervous temperament; the other, the
English boy, with his brown hair, his sunburnt, yet handsome
features--the fruit of country air and exercise--far stouter and
sturdier than his foreign rival.

They were expected, of course, to be very friendly; but any keen
observer would have noted a certain air of distrust which showed
itself from time to time in their glances, in spite of the awkward
advances they made to each other.

How could it be otherwise? Could they forget the deadly feud
between their races? Could they forget that each was a claimant of
the lands of Aescendune--the one by birth, the other by the right
of conquest?

And now the bridal train reached the gates of the Hall amidst the
plaudits of the Normans and the deep silence of the Englishmen--many
of whom would sooner far have seen the fair Winifred in her grave
than the wife of Hugo de Malville.

"What thinkest thou, Sexwulf, of this most outlandish wedding?"

"What can I think, Ulf, but that the good widow has lost her senses
through grief at the death of her lord, the noble Edmund, else
would the dove never mate the black crow."

"Yea, she was pale as death as she entered the church."

"Well she may be; she liketh not the match, only she would save the
estates for her boy's sake."

"Will she be able to save them?"

"So the Conqueror hath promised. Wilfred, our young lord, is to
inherit if he live; and if he die, then that dark young French
lad--a true cub of the old wolf."

"If he live. Well, I would not wager much upon his chance of a long
life in that case."

"Nor I; but we must not say so, if we value our ears, or our necks
even."

Long and loud was the revelry in the castle of Aescendune that
night; as it is written in the old ballad of Imogene:

"The tables groaned with the weight of the feast,
And many and noble were the guests."

But no spectral form sat beside the bride, although there were not
wanting those who half imagined the dead Edmund might appear--roused
even