ndeed."

"Then," said the Archbishop, holding a parchment folded up so as to
conceal all but the name and the mark of a bow beside it, "dost
thou know this mark?"

"I do; it is the mark of Guy, the son of Roger."

"Do ye all," said Lanfranc, turning round, "hear his affirmation?"

"We do--"

"Then hear what the paper contains."

I, Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville, being a dying man, and
about to meet my God, do make this, my last confession, for the
safety of my poor soul.

In the summer of the year 1068, in the mouth of June, I, with
twenty other men, who have, so far as I know, perished by firs in
the Dismal Swamp, was summoned to wait upon the Baron of Aescendune
in a private chamber. He told us that the honour of his house
depended upon us, and asked us whether we were willing to stand by
him in his necessity. He had selected us well. We were born on his
Norman estates, and trained up from childhood to do his will, and
that of the devil. We all promised to do whatever he should ask,
and to keep the matter a secret.

Then he told us that we were to burn the Priory of St. Wilfred at
midnight, and to allow none to escape.

This we did, we took possession silently of every exit, piled up
wood and straw, set it on fire on every side at once, and
transfixed all those who tried to break out with arrows or lances,
and hurled them back into the flames.

Long has my soul been sick with horror that I slew these holy men,
and now that all who were my companions in this deed have perished
by God's just judgment--burnt alive even as they burned--I, willing
to save my soul from the everlasting flame, do make this my
penitent confession, praying God to have mercy upon my soul.

Given in the Dismal Swamp, in the month of June, 1068.

CHAPTER XXIII. "GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY."

A dead silence followed the reading of the dying confession of Guy,
son of Roger.

The mighty Conqueror looked around, as if he would read men's
hearts.

Etienne de Malville was flushed, and seemed ready to sink into the
earth for shame, as though he himself were responsible for the
guilt of his father.

Wilfred of Aescendune, on the other hand, looked like one whose
innocence was vindicated; there was an expression of joy on his
face--joy, however, so tempered by other feelings, that it could
not be called exultation.

"It is a forgery--a vile and shameful forgery," cried Etienne.

"Thou didst thyself recognise the mark," said