The unhappy youth, whose recklessness and folly had led to the
entire destruction of the troop confided to his care, was now their
sole survivor.
In that hour, when all was lost, at the close of the deadly
struggle in the house, he had crawled through the door, ere the
lights were rekindled which had been extinguished in the frenzy of
the conflict, and sought refuge in flight: not so much, it must be
owned, because he feared death (although youth naturally clings to
life), as because he longed to live for vengeance, and to carry the
secret of the "Dismal Swamp" to Aescendune.
He was bleeding, bruised, scarcely able to move without pain--all
his energy seemed exhausted in the supreme effort which had saved
him, at least for the time; but it was again very dark, thick
clouds charged with snow once more obscured the moon, and the cover
of the trees was before him, which he sought, determined rather to
perish in the morass than to become the sport of his triumphant
foes.
He had gained the desired shelter, and had paused to rest himself
and consider what to do next, when he felt something living come
into contact with his legs. He started, as well he might under the
circumstances, when he saw to his great relief that it was one of
the dogs which had accompanied his party throughout the day, and
hope sprang up in his breast. The hound might perhaps lead him back
through the morass.
At that moment, the arrival of Wilfred with a large body of fresh
enemies took place, and Etienne was yet within hearing when his
rival stood in the doorway and cried aloud:
"Etienne, son of Hugo, has been here and escaped; hunt him down,
men and dogs; he can hardly have passed the morass; we must not let
him live to become a murderer like his father."
The voice sounded like a summons from the dead. Etienne turned
pale; then the blood coursed rapidly through his veins, as he saw
by the light of the moon, which emerged just then from a cloud, his
hated rival, standing in front of the farmhouse--alive, and for the
time victorious.
Now all was clear. Wilfred was the cause of the calamities which
had fallen upon them, and the leader of the outlaws; and Etienne,
who, to do him justice, never suspected the true author of the
crime, doubted not that his rival had fired the monastery to
conceal his flight.
He felt an intense desire that he might grapple with his young foe
in the death struggle. Willingly would he have accepted such a
decision between their rival claims; but he was alone, wounded,
exhausted, a faithful dog his sole friend. He felt that the day of
vengeance must be postponed.
He spoke to the poor hound, and succeeded in making it comprehend
that he wanted "to go home." With that canine sagacity which
approaches very near to reason, the dog at once sought for the path
by which they had entered the morass, found it, and ran forward
eagerly. Etienne entered it, trembling with hope, when the dog
stopped, growled, and came back to its lord. The steps of many feet
were heard approaching.
"The place swarms with foes," muttered the hunter, who had become
in his turn the hunted.
A crash in the bush behind, and a huge English mastiff rushed upon
Etienne. His Norman sleuth hound threw himself upon the assailant
of his master, and a terrific struggle ensued. Etienne did not dare
wait to see its conclusion or help his canine protector, for the
noise of the conflict was drawing all the English there; but he
struggled back to the open, and ran along the inner edge of the
wood, hoping to find another track through the morass.
Suddenly he stumbled upon a swift little stream flowing down a bank
into the desert of slime. He felt at once that it must rise from
the chain of hills behind, and that by following it he might get
out of the swamp; it was all too like a mountain current to have
its origin in the level, and he determined to follow it.
Besides, if he walked up the stream, he would baffle the English
dogs, for water leaves no scent; in short, collecting all his
energies, he strode rapidly up the brook.
But his strength was not equal to a sustained effort; the
excitement of the night had been too much for him; and after he had
traversed about a mile, he sat down to rest on the bank, and fell
into a dead faint.
The first beams of the rising sun had illuminated the horizon, the
very time at which poor Pierre was led forth to die, when an aged
Englishwoman, coming down to draw water at the spring, espied the
fainting youth.
She advanced to his side, and seemed moved by compassion as she
gazed upon the wounded, bloodstained form.
"How young he is, poor lad. Ought I to help him? Yes, it must be
right to do so. How the cry of hounds and men comes up the glen!"
"Wake up, wake up!" she cried, and sprinkled water upon his face.
He rose up as if from a deep sleep.
"Mother, what is it?"
"Come with me; I will give thee shelter."
His senses returned sufficiently for him both to comprehend her
meaning and his own danger, and he followed mechanically. Just
above, the waters of the stream, dammed up for the moment, had
formed a little pond, surrounded by trees, save on one side, where
was a little garden of herbs, and in its centre, close by the
stream, stood a humble cot.
It was built of timber; posts had been driven at intervals into the
ground, willow twigs had been woven in and out, the interstices
filled with the clay which was abundant at the edge of the
pond--and so a weather-proof structure had been built. There was no
chimney, only a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape, above the
place for the fire.
Within, the floor was strewn with rushes; there was a table, two or
three rough chairs made of willow, a few household implements.
At one extremity a curtain, made of skins of wolf or deer, was
drawn across the room, beyond which was a couch, a kind of box
filled with rushes and leaves, over which lay a blanket and
coverlets, of a softer material than one would have expected to
find in a peasant's hut of the period.
Many other little articles seemed to have been destined for a
prouder dwelling; but all besides betokened decent poverty. All was
clean, and there could be little danger of hunger in the
settlement, while the woods were full of game, and their little
fields were fruitful with corn.
Into this abode the old dame led her guest.
"Thou art Norman," she said.
"I am the son of the lord of Aescendune. If thou canst aid me to
escape my foes, thou shalt name thy own reward."
"Not all the gold thou hast would tempt me to aid thee; but the
love of One who died for us both forbids me to give thee up to
death. Thou art too young, poor youth, to be answerable for thy
father's sins."
A proud speech was on his lips, but prudence prevailed, and the
worthy cub of the old wolf determined to wear sheep's clothing till
his claws were grown again.
"The saints reward thee," he said, "since no other reward thou wilt
have."
He could say no more, but staggered into her hut, his strength
quite gone.
Nearer and nearer drew the cry of hounds and men.
"Save me if thou canst," he said.
She took him behind the curtain, made him lie down on the couch,
which was her own, and covered him completely over with a coverlet.
Then she charged him to lie quiet, whatever happened, and shut the
door of her hut.
By and by it burst open, and Wilfred stood in the doorway.
"Mother, hast thou seen any one pass this way? The Normans have
been in the hamlet: we have slain all but one, and he, the worst of
all, has escaped us."
"Canst thou not spare even one poor life?"
"Nay, it is Etienne, son of the old fiend Hugo; besides, once safe
off, he would betray our secret before we are ready for action."
"I cannot help thee in thy chase; thou knowest how I hate and
shrink from bloodshed, as did thy sainted mother."
"Yes, but they did not shrink from poisoning her--they whom she
would not have harmed to save her own life."
"God will avenge--leave all to Him."
"Nay, mother, we waste time; if thou hast not seen him, we go."
"Hast thou seen my Eadwin? He is generally here with the lark?"
Wilfred's face changed; he stammered out some evasive reply, and
dashed out to join the men and hounds, who were quite at fault;
they had lost the scent far below, where Etienne entered the brook,
and were diligently investigating, one by one, all the tracks that
led from the morass.
Etienne had heard all, and his heart smote him. From the language
used, the words he had heard, he felt that this old woman must be
the foster mother of his rival, and, if so, the mother of that very
Eadwin he had so cruelly put to death the previous night; he quite
understood Wilfred's evasive reply.
His heart smote him, and he repented of this cruelty, at least: he
dreaded the moment when his preserver must learn the truth. Would
she then give him up?
What, too, did Wilfred mean by his allusion to poison? Had he any
grounds for such suspicion? Poison was not an unknown agent amongst
the Normans. The great Duke himself had been suspected (doubtless
wrongfully) of removing Conan of Brittany by its means.
But fatigue overcame him, and he slept. And during that sleep
symptoms of fever began to show themselves. He began to talk in his
dreams--"There goes a fire--avoid it, it is an evil spirit--shoot
arrows at it. Make it tell the secret--now we shall know about the
swamp. Here is a fiend throttling me--oh, its awful eyes, they
blaze like two marsh fires. No, tie him to the wall; he shall tell
the truth or die. What are you giving me to drink?--it is blood,
blood. You have poisoned me--I burn, burn--my veins are full of
boiling lead--my heart a boiling cauldron. See, there are the marsh
fiends--they are carrying away Louis and Pierre--their tails are as
whips--ah, an arrow through each of their arms will stop them.
Where is my armour?--a hunting dress won't stop their darts, or
save one from their claws. Oh, father, help me--save me from the
goblins."
In this incoherent way he talked for hours, and the old dame
shuddered as he confused the real tragedy of the previous night
with imaginary terrors. Oh, how awful were his ravings to her, when
at last she learned the truth. Yet in those very ravings he showed
that remorse was at his heart.
She wept as she sat by his bed--wept over the son he had slain. The
details of that tragedy were, however, studiously concealed from
her by Wilfred's sedulous care; yet she knew Etienne had been the
leader of the hostile troop, in conflict with whom she supposed her
Eadwin to have fallen in fair open fight; for she was led to
understand he had been slain in the terrific struggle in the house.
"The only son of his mother, and she was a widow."
Father Kenelm came and read to her the story of the widow's son at
Nain, from King Alfred's Anglo-Saxon version of the Gospels. Not
even to him did she confide the secret, or tell who was separated
from the good priest only by a curtain--an instinct told her it was
right to tend and save--she would trust nothing else.
But in spite of this resolution the good father discovered it all;
for while he read the sweet story of old, he heard a cry in Norman
French.
"Keep off the fiend--the hobgoblin--he has got burning
arrows--snakes! snakes! there are snakes in the bed!"
"What means this, good mother?"
"Oh, thou wilt not betray him."
"Hast thou a fugitive there? Methinks I know the voice. Can it be
the son of the wicked baron?"
"He is not answerable for his father's sin; oh, do not betray
him--he is mad with fever."
"Dost thou mean to release him, should he get well? Methinks it
were better that he should die."
"With all his sins upon his head? May the saints forbid."
"At least were he but absolved after due contrition, and thou
knowest that thou hast little cause to love him."
"His death cannot give me back my boy," and she wept once more.
"Nay, it cannot; but if thou dost save him, it shall be under a
solemn pledge never to betray the place of our retreat. I will
myself swear him upon the Holy Gospels. But woe to him should our
young lord Wilfred discover him; I verily believe he would die the
death of St. Edmund {xiii}."
"Canst thou not teach poor Wilfred mercy--thou art his pastor and
teacher?"
"He grows fiercer daily, and chafes at all restraint. Remember what
he has suffered."
"The greater the merit, could he but forgive. You will keep my
secret, father?"
"I will: let me see him."
Father Kenelm went behind the curtain and watched the sufferer.
Etienne glared at him with lacklustre eyes, but knew him not, and
continued his inarticulate ravings. His forgiving nurse moistened
his lips from time to time with water, and by him was a decoction
of cooling herbs, with which she assuaged his parching thirst.
"Thou art a true follower of Him who prayed for His murderers,"
said Father Kenelm. "The Man of Sorrows comfort thee."