er, yet I do forgive thee."

"I might; it was my sin, and she was my liege lady, the gentlest
and kindest."

"Thou art forgiven; but oh! my father! who shall do justice on the
murderer, the poisoner?"

"That is thy task; the son must avenge his mother's blood, and do
justice on the murderer. Listen, Wilfred: Dost thou remember Bishop
Geoffrey of Coutances?"

"Well," said the poor boy, "he married them; but he, too, is a
Norman--they are all alike."

"Nay, there be wise and good men amongst them, and this bishop is
one. Thou shalt seek him, for he is now in Oxford: thou shalt start
this very night, and tomorrow thou mayest reach him. I will give
thee the written confession of this most unhappy but penitent
Beorn, and the bishop will hear thee, and justice shall yet be
done. But thou must depart at once, or he will have left the city.
I will give thee food, and my palfrey shall be at thy service in an
hour's time. And now, my child, while the food is preparing, go and
pray at thy mother's tomb, and ask for grace to seek justice, not
revenge; for it is not fitting the murderer should lord it longer
over thy people and thee!"

And in another minute the unhappy lad was prostrate before his
mother's tomb: all other thoughts had gone from him--Etienne,
Pierre, and the rest were forgotten--he was absorbed in the thought
of his parent's wrongs, and in the awful responsibility that
knowledge had thrust upon him {ix}.

CHAPTER VII. FRUSTRATED.

Far to the south of the demesne of Aescendune stretched a wild
expanse of woodland, giving shelter to numberless beasts of chase,
and well known to our young hero, Wilfred.

It was traversed by one of those vestiges of old times, the Roman
roads, and along this ancient trackway the poor lad, eager as the
avenger of blood in old times, spurred the good prior's palfrey,
which had never borne so impatient a rider before.

Onward, through the starry night, now on the open heath, now buried
in the deep shadow of ancient trees, now in the darkness of the
valley, then on the upland: here, startling the timid deer; there,
startled himself, as the solitary wolf, not yet extinct in those
ancient forests, glared at him from bush or brake--so Wilfred rode
onward.

It was summer time, and the sun rose early; welcome was its light
to our traveller, who rode on, trusting soon to reach a monastic
house in the neighbourhood of Banbury, where a few poor English
monks, not yet disposses