Wilfred's Priory seemed not unlikely to most men.
Hugo de Malville cum Aescendune was not the man to sit calmly on
the battlements of his newly-built towers and survey the
destruction of his property, although he was not free from a
terrible dread that his sins were finding him out, at which times
he was like a haunted man who sees spectres, invisible to the world
around.
Well did he surmise from whom the deadly provocation came, the loss
of his farm, the death of a noble lad committed to his care; not to
mention the loss of some common men, who could easily be replaced:
for there were ever fresh swarms of Normans, French, and Bretons
pouring into poor old England, as though it were some newly
discovered and uninhabited land.
The aggressors, he doubted not, were the outlaws his tyranny had
driven to the forests, the forerunners of the Robin Hoods and
Little Johns of later days, whose exploits against the Norman race
awoke the enthusiasm of so many minstrels and ballad makers
{x}.
But all his efforts were in vain: neither men nor dogs could track
the fugitives, although all the woods were explored, save only that
impassable Dismal Swamp, where all seemed rottenness and slime, and
where it could scarcely be imagined aught human could live.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110