"Thou say'st the poor boy has a boon to crave--the body of
his sire, and begs through me--I will out, and speak to him."
"Thy name, my son?" said Geoffrey to Wilfred.
"Wilfred, son of the Thane of Aescendune, in Mercia."
"Hast thou been in the battle?"
"Only since all was over, or I had died by his side."
"The saints have preserved thee for better things than to die in a
cause accursed by the Church. Nay, my son, I blame thee not, thou
art too young to know better."
And truly the boy's face and manner, winning though suffused with
tears, might have softened a harder heart than beat beneath the
rochet of the Bishop of Coutances, warrior prelate though he was.
So, without any further delay, he led the boy into the presence of
the mighty Conqueror.
"Who is this stripling? an English lad, my lord of Coutances?"
"He has come to beg permission to carry away the body of his sire.
Bend thy knee, my lad, and salute thy future king."
"Nay, thy present one; coronation will but put the seal on
accomplished facts," said Eustace.
But young though Wilfred was, he had his father's spirit in him,
and spoke in broken sentences.
"My lord," he said, "I cannot own thee as my king. My father would
not have me abjure all he taught me before his body is yet cold.
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