Day after day Etienne de Malville tossed upon the couch in the hut
of the woman whom he had so cruelly bereaved, struggling against
the throes of fever. In his ravings he was prone to dwell upon all
the scenes of horror he had recently passed through, and yet some
Providence, intervening, kept from his lips the one revelation
which might have endangered his safety--that he was himself the
murderer of the son of his preserver.
Sometimes Father Kenelm visited the hut, and although in his heart
he deeply regretted that Etienne had not shared the fate of his
companions, yet he was too much a Christian to frustrate the good
deed of poor old Hilda, by revealing the secret of his existence.
At length, some weeks after the commencement of his illness, after
days of parching thirst and delirious dreams, Etienne woke one
morning, conscious, and gazed dreamily about him.
The crisis had passed; he was no longer in danger from the fever,
and his senses were clear of the terrible and shadowy impressions
which had hung about him like a gigantic nightmare.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
"He is conscious, father," said the old woman. "What does he say?"
for Etienne spoke in Norman French.
"Thou hast been in great danger, my son, and this good woman hath
saved thee and sheltered thee from thy foes."
"Thanks, good mother."
There was a tone of deep feeling in his voice as he said these
words--"but what has passed? I have a confused remembrance of
hunting and being hunted, in a midnight forest, and of a deadly
combat in a dark chamber, from which I seemed to wake to find
myself here."
"Thy destiny has, indeed, been nearly accomplished, and that thou
art the survivor of the party with which thou didst invade the
Dismal Swamp is owing to this widow woman," said the good father in
the patient's own tongue.
Etienne fell back on his pillow and seemed trying to unravel the
tangled thoughts which perplexed him. Once more the dame came and
brought him a cooling drink. He drank it, thanked her, and fell
back with a sigh.
Yes, it all came to him now, as clear as the strong daylight--and
with it came remorse. He had cruelly slain young Eadwin, and the
mother of the murdered lad--for he knew her--had rescued him from
what his conscience told him would have been a deserved fate, at
least at the hands of the English.
There are crises in all men's lives--and this was one in the life
of Etienne--when they choose good or evil.
And from that time, new impressions had power over him. He lay in
deep remorse, knowing that he still owed his life to the
forbearance, and more than forbearance, with which he had been
treated.
"If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for
in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head."
Etienne now felt these coals of fire.
He was not all pride and cruelty. His education had made him what
he was, and probably, under the same circumstances, with such a
father and the training of a Norman castle, many of my young
readers who have detested his arrogance would have been like him,
more or less.
"Their lot forbids, nor circumscribes alone,
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines."
But now the generosity which lay hidden deep in his heart was
awakened; the holy teachings which, in his childhood he had heard
at his mother's knee--a mother who, had she lived, might have
influenced his whole conduct--came back to him. There were many
pious mothers, after all, in Normandy. Pity they had not better
sons.
"Forgive us our trespasses."
The daily ministrations of the poor childless widow, whom he had
made childless, were a noble commentary on these words.
"Mother," he said, one day, "forgive me--I have much to be
forgiven--I cannot tell thee all."
"Nay, thou needst not; thou art forgiven for the love of Him who
has forgiven us all."
For a long time yet he lingered a prisoner on his couch; for fever
had so weakened him that he could hardly support his own weight.
But at length convalescence set in, and his strength returned; but
he could only take exercise--which was now necessary to his
complete recovery--when Father Kenelm was at hand to act as a
scout, and warn him to retire in the case of the approach of any
Englishman; for although he had adopted the English dress, yet his
complexion and manner would have betrayed him to any observer close
at hand.
At length came the day of deliverance.
It was a day in early April. The east winds of March had dried the
earth, the sun had now some power, and the trees were bursting into
leaf in every direction. It was one of those first days of early
summer, which are so delicious from their rarity, and seem to
render this earth a paradise for the time being.
The convalescent was out of doors, inhaling the sweet breeze, in
the immediate proximity of the hut, when the good father appeared.
"My son," he said, "dost thou feel strong enough to travel?"
"I do, indeed, father," said the youth, his heart bounding with
delight; "but may I go, and without any ransom?"
"Surely; we have not preserved thy life from love of filthy lucre."
"I feel that father, in my very heart; but hast thou no pledge to
demand? Dost thou trust all to my gratitude?"
"Thou wilt never fight against the poor fugitives here, my son?"
"Nor betray the path to their retreat" added Etienne.
"That is already known," said the father.
"Known! then war is at hand."
"It is, and I would remove thee, lest harm should befall thee. Thou
wilt travel hence with me at once."
"Before we start I would fain be shriven by thee, for I have
grievously sinned, and to whom can I more fitly make my shrift? so
that he who has ministered to the body may in turn minister to the
soul."
"There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth," said the
good monk, greatly moved, "and right gladly will I discharge mine
office towards thee."
The hour had come for Etienne to depart. He had bidden farewell to
the faithful Hilda. His last words were--"Thou hast lost one son,
mother, but found another; if Etienne de Malville lives, thou shalt
be recompensed one day."
The two pedestrians left the hut and, keeping close along the
border of the marsh, under the shadow of the trees, came at last to
the little isthmus which joined the firm ground within the marsh,
to a chain of woody hills.
The ground was so covered with vegetation and undergrowth that it
was difficult to advance, save by one narrow path; but Etienne saw
at once that in this direction the settlement could be assaulted at
any time of the year with every chance of success.
The monk must have been aware also that he was betraying the secret
of this approach to a Norman; but strangely enough, he did not seem
to trouble about it at this juncture.
"Father," said Etienne, "I would fain ask thee one question before
we part."
"Speak on, my son."
"I would fain know, father, what murderous hand gave thy abbey to
the flames--a deed abhorred by all good men, whether Normans or
English."
"Thou dost not know then?"
"Surely not, father."
"I may not tell thee whom all suspect; it is better for thy peace
of mind that it should remain a mystery till God solve the riddle."
"Thou mayst not tell how Wilfred escaped either," added Etienne,
who in his heart thought that the outlaws had fired the place and
released him from his imposed penance.
"On all these points my lips are sealed. Perhaps in God's own time
thou wilt learn the truth."
"Then I may not act as a mediator between my father and his
fugitive vassals?"
"Not under present circumstances. There is a dark mystery, which
God in His mercy hides from thee."
They had now gained a slight elevation, and could see the tops of
the trees below them for miles, including a portion of the swamp.
"Father, how full the woods are of smoke: look, it is rolling in
great billows over the tree tops. Surely the woods are on fire."
"I have heard that in foreign countries the woods are so dry in
summer that they burn easily, and that people caught in the forests
have great difficulty in saving their lives; but it is not so here,
the reeds and flags of the marshes alone are on fire."
"Methinks I hear the shouts of men who strive for mastery," and as
he spoke, the fire of the warrior kindled in his eyes.
"Thou mayst not join them if such be the case; thou wilt keep thy
promise, my son."
"Yes," said the tamed tiger cub, with a sigh; "yet I would fain
know what my father is doing. Let us go on."
Two more hours of forest travelling carried them far from the sound
of the conflict and they gained the outskirts of the forest.
Entering some nicely cultivated meadows, they came in sight of a
small Norman priory, which Etienne had visited in earlier days,
when out on woodland expeditions; for it was miles from Aescendune,
and the way lay through the forest.
"Farewell my son, I must leave thee here. They are thy countrymen
in yonder cell, and will gladly entertain thee."
"Thy blessing, my father."
"It is thine, my son. Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with
thy God, and He will bless thee."
Etienne sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, for he was very tired,
and watched the departing figure of Father Kenelm. His eyes were
dim, for he felt very much touched, for the time at least.
But he was now restored to life and liberty, and no bird in the
sky, no deer on the mountain, felt more blithe and happy than he
soon began to feel.
There is an old adage about the Evil One. It is said he became sick
and wanted to be a monk, but when he became well--well--Was this
the case with Etienne?
Time will show: for the present we leave him blowing the horn
suspended at the gate of St. Ouen's priory.