themselves ascending between two
steep banks. It was a narrow valley, through which a brook poured
its waters into the desolation beneath.

At the summit they stopped and rested for a few minutes. It was
not, as may be imagined, very high; but beneath lay the whole
extent of the Dismal Swamp. It was after midnight.

"What can that brightness in the sky portend, my child? There must
be some dreadful fire; and, alas! it looks as if in the
neighbourhood of Aescendune!"

"I hope it is the castle."

The poor monk was very much alarmed; he feared it might be the
monastery, and the reader knows he was right.

Now the heavens were lit up with intense brightness, now it faded
again. It was long before they left the summit and the view of the
reddened sky.

"May it not be the northern lights?"

"Nay, my son, it is south of us, and they never look quite like
this. I fear me mischief is abroad, and shall not be happy till I
get me home again tomorrow."

Poor Father Kenelm, the woods were now his sole home.

At length, as the brightness disappeared, they continued along the
brook, until they reached a wide extent of flat meadow ground
traversed by the stream, separated by low hills from the morass.

In the centre of the valley, if such it may be called, the brook
divided, enclosing about an acre of ground, ere its streams met
again, hurrying down to the morass. Deep and rapid as it was, its
course had been but short; a copious spring burst from the ground
not half a mile above, whence streams issuing different ways helped
to form the slimy waste which girt in this little island of firm
land.

There, in the ground enclosed by the divided stream, was the home
once inhabited by the ancestors of our young hero. The monk knocked
loudly at the door--no watch was kept--the marsh was their
protection.

The dogs began to bark, and one or two which were loose came up,
half disposed to make war upon the travellers, but they soon
recognised the monk. Lights were seen, the doors opened, two or
three sunburnt faces appeared in the doorway.

"Sexwulf, I bring you a guest; look at him--dost thou know him?"

"It is our young lord!"

Late though it was, the whole household was soon in uproar--the
welcome was grand--and it was all the good father could do to
prevent their arousing the whole village, to hear the joyful news
that their young lord--rescued from Norman tyranny, which had even
threatened his life--was there, relying