CHAPTER VII. FRUSTRATED.
Far to the south of the demesne of Aescendune stretched a wild
expanse of woodland, giving shelter to numberless beasts of chase,
and well known to our young hero, Wilfred.
It was traversed by one of those vestiges of old times, the Roman
roads, and along this ancient trackway the poor lad, eager as the
avenger of blood in old times, spurred the good prior's palfrey,
which had never borne so impatient a rider before.
Onward, through the starry night, now on the open heath, now buried
in the deep shadow of ancient trees, now in the darkness of the
valley, then on the upland: here, startling the timid deer; there,
startled himself, as the solitary wolf, not yet extinct in those
ancient forests, glared at him from bush or brake--so Wilfred rode
onward.
It was summer time, and the sun rose early; welcome was its light
to our traveller, who rode on, trusting soon to reach a monastic
house in the neighbourhood of Banbury, where a few poor English
monks, not yet dispossessed by the Norman intruders, served God in
their vocation, according to their light, and offered hospitality
to the wayfarer.
To these poor monks Wilfred had been commended by the good prior of
Aescendune, and with them he purposed to rest all day, for it was
not safe to travel before nightfall without a Norman passport.
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