they rang their bells loudly and defiantly, for
the compline service at the third hour of the night (9 P.M.) This
last act of audacity was too much; the natives surrounded the new
priory, beat at its doors, rang the bell at the gate, blew their
horns, and made a noise which baffles description, while they
proceeded to batter down the gates.

But not until the service was concluded, when the gate only hung by
one hinge, did the prior appear.

"Who are ye," he cried, "who molest the house of God, and those who
serve Him within?"

"A pious fox"--"a holy fox"--"smoke them out"--"set the place on
fire"--"let them taste the fate which befell better men on this
spot!"

"In whose name," said the undismayed prior, "do ye summon me?"

"In the name of the descendant of him who first founded this
priory--of Wilfred, thane of Aescendune."

"Ye mock us; he is dead."

"Nay, he lives," said a voice, and our youthful hero appeared on
the scene, and addressed the astonished monk.

"Prior, go forth from the house thou and thy brethren have usurped,
and make way for the true owners. By my side stands the sole
survivor of the brethren whom Hugo de Malville slaughtered, Father
Kenelm, a Benedictine like thyself. Admit him; he will tell thee
all."

"Since it may be no better, he shall come in. If I open the gates
for him, ye will not take advantage?"

"Stand back," cried Wilfred, "let the holy monk enter alone."

And, shortly after, Father Kenelm stood in the chapter house, and
explained all to the astonished Norman brethren. He told the story
of the destruction of their predecessors, and pointed out the
danger of resisting the now triumphant English, who felt themselves
the avengers of their slaughtered ministers and friends, the former
monks of St. Wilfred.

"It is well," said the other; "we will go forth; thou speakest with
justice, as brother to brother, and whatever befall thy companions,
this shall be counted in thy favour if I have a tongue to speak."

So the Norman prior and his monks took their way unharmed to the
nearest house of their order.

It was night and dark clouds of smoke rolled heavenward, blotting
out the fair stars from sight. Silence dread and awful reigned over
the Dismal Swamp, the scene of strife and suffering; the very
beasts fled the spot, nor could the birds of night linger in the
heated air.

But at Aescendune all was tumult and joy. The English had advanced
against an undefended stronghold