“I know where to find them, but you will come; why not fly to the woods with me now?”

“Honour prevents.  And after all, you had better say goodbye at once to those at home, and be off:  perhaps I had better say goodbye for thee—­it will be safest.”

A few more parting instructions, and they separated; the young thrall actually kneeling and kissing his young lord’s hand with that devoted love nought save such obligations could give.

Wilfred was returning to the castle, when he met Pierre, who was evidently seeking him.

“Wilfred,” he said, “I have come to offer you my services for tomorrow; you will want the offices of a friend.”

“Art thou my friend?”

“Yes, since I see thou art not a coward.  While I saw thee suffering insult after insult without ever resenting them, I thought thee craven, and could not speak thee fair; now thou art as one of us.”

“Thou art not like other Normans, then.”

“I am not Norman, but Breton, and perhaps we do not love the Normans over much in Brittany; at least, I can feel for one in thy position.”

“Thanks,” was all that Wilfred could stammer out.

These were almost the first kind words he had heard since his mother’s death, save in those stolen moments when he had been alone amidst his English thralls and churls, and they had been but few.

“Thou art not so skilled in fencing as Etienne; I should advise an hour or two in the tilt yard, and I can tell thee of some of his feints, which are not a little dangerous.”

“Thanks, I shall not have too much time.”

“Dost thou think the baron will give leave?”

“Yes; he hates me in his heart.  Were I the better swordsman, he might not consent.”

“I agree with thee—­wert thou dead, Etienne would be heir of Aescendune.  At all events, thou wilt go to confession and get thy soul in order—­betake thyself to thy holy gear—­men fight none the worse for a clear conscience.  And I would ask the intercession of St. Michael—­men speak well of him in Brittany, and tell how he fought a combat a outrance with Satan, wherein the latter came off none the better man.”

“I shall see Father Elphege tonight—­we are not heathen, we English.”

“Ah! here comes Louis.  Well, what news dost thou bring?”

“Good ones.  Our lord permits the fight.  You should have seen how stark and stern he looked when he saw his son’s eyes.  Wilfred, thou hast a fist like a smith.  Wilt thou do as well with the sword?”

“Tomorrow will show.”

“Well, it is quite right of thee to fight for thine own serfs; I would have fought for mine at Marmontier—­none should have come between me and them.  And I am glad we did not hurt the poor knave.  Etienne will be a hard lord for thy people, if anything happens to thee.”

Oh, how the memory of his mother and her counsels came before the poor orphan.