A sudden resolution came upon him; he did not awake the sleeper, but retired to digest it at his ease in the security of his own chamber.

It was but little sleep the baron took that night.  Hour after hour the sentinel heard him pacing to and fro.  Had any one seen him, he would have judged that Hugo was passing through a terrible mental conflict.

“No, I cannot do it,” he said, as if to some unseen prompter.

“It is the only way; crush all thine enemies at once, let not even a dog survive to bark at thee.”

“But what would the world say?”

“The world need not know, if thou contrivest well.”

“But such secrets will out—­a bird of the air would carry the matter, if none else did.”

“Such are the bogies with which nurses frighten children.  Art thou not a man and a Norman?”

“But the poor monks—­if they were but soldiers.”

“The less crime if they perish—­they are fitter to die; and they are but English swine, like their neighbours, of whom thou hast slain so many.”

So, through the long hours did the Prince of Darkness commune with his destined prey.  There are periods of temptation which none know in their intensity, save such as have by long habit encouraged the Evil One to tempt them—­who have swallowed bait after bait, until they can digest a very large hook at last.

At length, just as the dawn was reddening the skies, the baron threw himself upon his pallet and slept, not the sleep of the innocent, for his features moved convulsively again and again, and sometimes it seemed as if he were contending with some fearful adversary in his dreams.

But no angel of good stood near his couch; long since had continual indulgence in evil driven his guardian away, and Satan had all his own way.

The sounds of life and activity were many about the castle, and still Hugo arose not, until the third or fourth hour.  Then he swallowed hastily a cup of generous Gascon wine, and a crust of toasted bread, steeped in the liquor; after which he mounted his favourite steed, a high horse of great spirit, not to say viciousness, which none save himself cared to ride, and galloped furiously for hours through the forest, startling the timid deer and her fawn from many a brake.

It was evening when he returned:  Wilfred had not yet been released.

Count Eustace had departed, not until he had sought an interview with Wilfred, in his prison chamber, which turned out to be a fruitless one; for, terrified although he was at the loss of his letter, the youth kept his secret.

It was a pity that he did so.  Many a sad page yet to be written might have been saved.  But was it unnatural that the poor orphan should feel an invincible reluctance to claim Norman aid? yet the Bishop of Coutances was Norman.

At length, supper being ready, Hugo came in and took his usual place at the head of the high table.  All trace of his mental struggles was gone.