tinguished or converted into weapons--men rolled over
and over in deadly strife, seeking where to plant the dagger or
knife--they throttled each other, or dashed hostile heads against
the floor--they tore the hair or beard as they struck beneath, not
with the fist, but the knife--on rolled the strife--the very
building shook--till there was a sudden lull, and in a few more
minutes it was peace.

A dozen Englishmen stood upright amidst prostrate corpses, many
streaming with blood; while many bodies lay on the floor, eight of
which were discovered, when the lights were rekindled, to be
Normans.

Only one Norman yet lived, and he was wounded--it was Pierre.

The young Breton lay on the ground, grievously wounded in several
places, yet not mortally--and fully conscious--when he heard an
eager voice inquire in a tone of authority:

"What is the meaning of all this? How did they cross the morass?
Are many of our people hurt?"

He looked up; the voice startled him. Well it might--it was to him
a voice from the grave.

There, in the doorway, living and well, strong and well-liking, in
the glare of torchlight, stood his former companion, Wilfred of
Aescendune.

Their eyes met, and they gazed fixedly, yes, and proudly, upon each
other; but the glance of Wilfred softened first. He saw before him
the only one of his former companions who had ever given him a
friendly word, whom misapprehension alone had estranged from him,
which he (Wilfred) had refused to remove.

"We meet again, Pierre de Morlaix."

"Thou art not dead, then. How didst thou escape? Who burnt the
monastery?"

"Art thou so demented as to ask me? Dost thou think English torches
fired an English house of God? Times are changed now, and thou
seest me surrounded by the vassals of my father's house, who own no
lord but their natural chieftain. But where is Etienne? We have
watched your party all day, and know that the young tyrant was
their leader. Is he amongst the dead?"

"Look for thyself."

No. Etienne was not amongst the dead. How, then, had he escaped?

"Search the premises--search the woods--stop the paths across the
morass--men and dogs, all of you. Better all the rest had escaped:
he shall never, never live to be lord of Aescendune."

And Wilfred vanished to give orders out of doors.

An hour had passed away; the dead had been removed, the English to
be decently buried--for there was an old church built by Elfwyn of
Aescendune, during the D