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.”

CHAPTER XIV.  THE GUIDE.

Rarely had a spring occurred so dry as that of 1069.  With the beginning of March dry winds set in from the east, no rain fell, and the watercourses shrank to summer proportions.