scendune, in the flesh?"

"I am he."

"Then I am glad to see thee, for thus my limbs are saved the toil
of seeking thee, and my rheumatics make me dread the night air."

"Seeking me?"

"Yes, verily; the good prior desireth thee earnestly, and adjured
me to fetch thee without delay; and lo! Saint Cuthbert hath sent
thee."

What could the prior want of him? thought the lad; had he heard of
the quarrel, through young Eadwin, and did he disapprove of it?

At all events, he would be saved the trouble of many words; and he
entered.

He passed along the cloister, with its ceiling of carved wood and
its rude wooden crucifix at the end thereof; he looked out at the
little green square of grass, enclosed by the quadrangle, wherein
reposed in peace the monks of former generations. Once the thought
flashed over him, that a similar little grassy hillock might, ere a
few hours were over, be raised above his own earthly remains; but
that did not shake his purpose.

He ascended a spiral staircase and entered the prior's own cell.

"What, Wilfred! and so soon? Sooth to say, my messenger hath sped."

"He met me just outside the gate, father."

"By the blessing of heaven, my son."

"But why hast thou sent for me, and why this haste?"

"A dying man wishes to see thee--nay, do not start! he has a sad
confession to make--one it will harrow thy blood to hear, and he
cannot die in peace without thy forgiveness."

"My forgiveness! How has he injured me? He is a Norman, I suppose?"

"Nay, he belongeth not to the proud race of our oppressors; he is
an old serf of thy house. Dost thou remember Beorn the woodman?"

"Who slew the deer and sold them in secret, and when the deed was
discovered, fled?"

"The same; it is he."

"But what harm hath he done so great that he should come here to
ask forgiveness? 'Twas a small matter; at least, it seems so now."

"My son, that is not the matter he hath to confess."

"What is it, then?"

"Prepare thyself, my dear child; now be composed; you must resign
yourself to God's will."

"Tell me, father, and end this suspense. What is amiss?"

"Nay, he must do that; I wanted to prepare thee; but tis about thy
mother."

Wilfred turned pale at once and trembled, for the one passion which
divided his soul with hatred to the Normans was love for the memory
of his parents. What had the man got to say about his mother?

"But this is not constancy and firmness--thou quakest like an aspen
leaf