my son. To whom do I render my thanks? Well do I know thy fame as
the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre; but our vow accomplished, we may
lay aside our incognitos and assume our names once more."

"We may indeed, and I will utter the name of one--long since
numbered with the dead in the records of men, and re-assume it upon
this sacred mount."

Etienne gazed intently upon the open face, but no look of
recognition followed.

"I crave thy pardon, if I ought to recognise thee, yet truth
compels me to say I do not."

"Nor can I wonder; didst thou recognise me, thou wouldst think me a
ghost permitted to revisit the land of the living--one whom thou
didst actually behold wrapped in the cere cloth of the tomb!--whose
funeral thou didst witness with thine own eyes! Yet he lives, and
feels sure that thou wilt not revoke, upon this holy hill, that
pardon from the living, thou didst bestow upon the seeming dead."

Etienne trembled.

"Art thou then? nay, it cannot be!"

"Etienne de Malville, I am Wilfred of Aescendune."

For a moment Etienne turned pale, and gazed as if to make sure he
did not behold a ghost or a vampire--gazed like one startled out of
his self possession, and the first emotion which succeeded was
sheer incredulity; there was small trace of the once fair-haired
English boy in the sunburnt, storm-beaten warrior of fifty to
assist his memory.

"Nay, my brother, it cannot be; thou art jesting;--not, at least,
the Wilfred of Aescendune I once knew, and by whom I fear I dealt
somewhat hardly; he died, and was buried at Oxenford thirty years
agone. I saw his dead body; I beheld his burial; I have joined in
masses for his soul; I have prayed for his repose; nay, it cannot
be!"

But when in few words, but words to the purpose, Wilfred explained
the device of Geoffrey of Coutances--when he reminded Etienne of
facts, which none but he could have known--conviction gradually,
but firmly, seized the mind of his ancient enemy.

"I believe that thou art he," said the latter, with trembling
voice; "believe, though I cannot yet realise the fact, and I thank
God."

He extended his hand gravely, and Wilfred grasped it with equal
solemnity.

"Thou art, then, my uncle Wilfred I have so long been taught to
think dead, for whom I have prayed many a time, for whom countless
masses have been offered at St. Wilfred's shrine," said young
Edward.

"Thou hast not, then, been taught to hate me?"

"No, indeed," said the boy; "