dark, the hour is
late--we must return tomorrow."

"Perhaps," said the old forester, sorrowfully, "but we are in a
forest infested by these English fiends, perhaps by real demons.
There are many who affirm as much, and there is not a man here who
might not profitably give up a year of his life to be just five
miles nearer home."

The old man took the office of guide upon himself, naturally, as
the most experienced in woodcraft, and for a mile or two led with
confidence; but at length the darkness became intense, and the
guide paused.

The night was indeed terrible; it was as black as ink--they could
scarce see the uplifted hand when held before the face; while, to
add to their discomfort, the snow, now they had changed their
course, blew into their faces; the wind had risen and moaned in
hollow gusts amidst the tree tops. Its wailings seemed like
prognostications of coming evil.

It was at this juncture Ralph was forced to confess he could no
longer feel certain of the track.

"Let us trust to the dogs," said he; "they have an instinct better
than our reason. Let them have long leashes, and go as freely as
possible; we shall easily follow them, and, please God, shall reach
home in time."

"There is a better guide," replied Etienne, as they all suddenly
saw a solitary light, as from a man carrying a torch, arise before
them in the darkness, and glide gently on into the depths of the
forest.

CHAPTER X. EVEN THE TIGER LOVES ITS CUB.

We must once more use the privilege of an author, and transport our
readers from the distant forest to Aescendune, speedily as the
Genius of the Lamp transported the palace of Aladdin.

The November evening was setting in drearily, the fast-fading
gleams of daylight were disappearing amidst thickly-falling
snow--it was the hour when tired mortals shut doors and windows,
turn instinctively to the cheerful hearth, and while they hear the
wind roar without, thank God they are sheltered from its blasts;
and perhaps think with some pity of poor homeless wanderers, in
pathless forests, or on dismal moors.

Troop after troop, the wearied and dispirited Normans returned from
their fruitless chase, till all were safely housed, save one
unhappy band. First came the wicked old baron himself, with all his
twenty retainers, safe and sound, then Bernard de Torci, who had
won to himself an English wife and the manor of Wylmcotte; then
Gilbert D'Aubyn of Bearleigh. One after another the