troops came in
from the outer darkness, white with snow, and shook their mantles
and jerkins in the guard chamber within the entrance archway, after
which their leaders repaired to the bathroom--for, in their way,
the Norman warriors were luxurious--and afterwards, perfumed and
anointed, donned the festal robes in which they hoped to dazzle the
eyes of the fair, if such were to be found in the Castle of
Aescendune.

The hour appointed for the banquet was the first hour of the
night--six in the evening we should now call it--and the Majordomo
sought his lord.

He found him risen from the bath and vested in flowing robes of
richest texture, with an ermine mantle around his shoulders.

"The banquet is ready, my lord, but the guests have not all
arrived."

"Has my son returned?"

"He has not come back yet, my lord. Shall I delay the banquet?"

"Are all the others in?"

"Sir Eustace de Senville has not yet come from the forest."

"Let it be delayed half an hour."

The old servant shook his head--the roast meats were done to a
turn, and he feared the reputation of the ten cooks, who had toiled
the long afternoon before the fires, might suffer.

The baron paced impatiently up and down his chamber.

There is some redeeming feature in the hearts of the worst of us:
even Lady Macbeth could not herself slay King Duncan, "he looked so
like her father," and the one weak point in the armour of proof--of
selfishness, we should say--which encrusted Hugo de Malville, was
his love for his son.

Etienne was to him as the apple of his eye; and little wonder--the
qualities which, we doubt not, nay, we trust, disfigure that
amiable youth in the minds of our gentle readers--his pride, his
carelessness for the bodily or mental sufferings of others--all
these things were nought to the Norman noble, he loved to see his
son stark and fierce, and smiled as he heard of deeds which better
men would have sternly refused to condone.

He almost longed for war--for some rebellion on the part of the
English--that Etienne might flesh his sword and win his spurs, and,
as we see, that wish, at least, was gratified.

But it was this very love for his own son which had made the old
baron so unloving a stepfather to Wilfred, in whom he could only
see the rival of his boy, and both mother and son were obstacles to
be removed--the old sinner did not sin for himself, it must be
confessed.

Half an hour passed. Sir Eustace, the last who arri