"
The good prior then went to the church, through the great cloister.
The poor lad he loved was praying and weeping.
"Wilfred," said the prior, "dost thou feel better now? Hast thou
poured out thy soul before thy Heavenly Father?"
"Better? yes, a little better now, father."
"Come with me to the refectory."
They left the church.
"Now eat a good meal."
"I cannot eat--it chokes me, father."
"Thou must, my dear son; it is a duty, for thou must travel far
tonight."
"Thank God."
"But it is not to Oxford, my son; thou wouldst not outlive the
night. It is that very journey they want thee to essay."
"Why?"
"That they may slay thee by the way."
"I may have my father's sword, which hangs over his tomb, may I
not?"
"Silly boy, what could one do against a score? Nay, thou must go
and hide for the present in the forest--thou rememberest 'Elfwyn's
Grange'?"
"Where my great grandfather hid from the Danes? Yes, many a time
have I gone there to shoot wild fowl, while my poor father was
alive."
"And thou knowest the buildings in the midst of the firm ground?"
"Well."
"Thou hast never told thy Norman companions about them?"
"Never! they one and all think the morass a mere desert, a
continuous swamp."
"So much the better, my dear son, for more than half the poor folk
who have deserted the village are there, and Father Kenelm will
take thee to them, for he knoweth the way, ministering to them
weekly as he does.
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