not have fled simply
for fear of the combat, nor would one who loved his own people, as
your story proves, have connived at the burning of an English
monastery--monks and all. Nay, my son, the mystery is not solved
yet; in God's own time it will be, and depend upon it, there will
be much to forgive on both sides. Think of this when thou repeatest
thy paternoster tonight; for the present we will close this
conference."

CHAPTER XX. THE MESSENGER FROM THE CAMP OF REFUGE.

A fortnight only had passed since the scenes described in our last
chapter, and we must again take our readers to Aescendune.

It was the hour of the evening meal in the castle hall where so
lately Hugo sat in his pride, and in his place sat his youthful
rival, Wilfred.

Scarcely of age, the vicissitudes of his life had made a man of him
before his time, and a stranger would have credited him with many
more years than he really possessed. His face was bronzed with the
sun, and his features had assumed all the appearance of early
manhood, while there was a gravity in his expression befitting a
born leader of men, such as his warlike grandfather, Alfgar, had
been in the old Danish wars sixty years earlier.

The accustomed features of an English feast, as distinct from a
Norman banquet, have been dwelt upon too often in these Chronicles
to need recapitulation here, and we shall only beg our readers to
suppose the eating over, the wine and mead handed round, and the
business of the evening begun.

The hall was crowded; all the ancient vassals of the house of
Aescendune, who yet survived, were present, and many new faces. By
the side of Wilfred sat a distinguished guest, an East Anglian, to
whom all present paid much attention.

The occasion was one of much gravity; only that evening messengers
had arrived, bringing the serious announcement that William the
mighty Conqueror, with a force said to be numerous as the leaves of
the trees, was at hand, and the gathering had been assembled to
discuss the measures expedient in the common danger.

There was deep silence; the summer twilight alone illumined the
grave faces of the English guests and vassals of Aescendune, as
Wilfred arose to address them.

"Englishmen and brethren," he began, "we have not invited you all
to share our evening meal on an occasion of idle ceremony--many of
you have heard the news I have to tell, and more will anticipate
them. The usurper, the bloodstained oppressor of