ly not the baron's. Soon a voice was heard through the
crevices of the rough planks which formed the door.

"Wilfred, art thou here?"

"I am. Is it thou, Pierre?"

"It is. Why didst thou flee the combat? Thou hast disgraced
thyself, and me, too, as thy friend."

"I cannot tell thee."

"Was it not fear, then?"

"It was not."

"Then at least vouchsafe some explanation, that I may justify thee
to the others."

"I cannot."

"Thou wilt not."

"If thou wilt have it so."

"Farewell, then; I can be no friend to a coward."

And the speaker departed: Wilfred counted his steps as he went down
the stairs. One pang of boyish pride--wounded pride--but it was
soon lost in the deeper woe.

A few more minutes and the warder brought the lad his supper. He
ate it, and then, wearied out--he had had no rest during the
previous night as the reader is aware, and had been in the saddle
for twenty hours--wearied out, he slept.

And while he slept the door softly opened, and the baron entered.
At the first glance he saw the lad was fast asleep, as his heavy
and regular breathing indicated. He did not awake him, but gazed
upon the features of the boy he had so deeply injured, with an
expression wherein there was no lingering remorse, but simply a
deep and deadly hatred. At length he was about to awake the
sleeper, when he saw the end of a packet of parchment protrude from
the breast of the tunic. The baron drew it softly out.

It was the letter of Father Elphege to the Bishop of Coutances.

The baron was scholar enough to read it--few Normans were so, and
fewer English nobles; but he was an exception. He read and knew
all; he read, and blanched a deadly white as he did so; his knees
shook together, and a cold sweat covered his face.

It was known, then; to how many? Probably only to the prior and
Wilfred, for it was but a dying confession of yesterday, as he
gathered from the letter.

A sudden resolution came upon him; he did not awake the sleeper,
but retired to digest it at his ease in the security of his own
chamber.

It was but little sleep the baron took that night. Hour after hour
the sentinel heard him pacing to and fro. Had any one seen him, he
would have judged that Hugo was passing through a terrible mental
conflict.

"No, I cannot do it," he said, as if to some unseen prompter.

"It is the only way; crush all thine enemies at once, let not even
a dog survive to bark at thee."

"But what would the world