Lights were seen, the doors opened, two or
three sunburnt faces appeared in the doorway.
"Sexwulf, I bring you a guest; look at him--dost thou know him?"
"It is our young lord!"
Late though it was, the whole household was soon in uproar--the
welcome was grand--and it was all the good father could do to
prevent their arousing the whole village, to hear the joyful news
that their young lord--rescued from Norman tyranny, which had even
threatened his life--was there, relying on their protection, and
that they, esteemed by the world as outlaws, were his chosen
guardians. They felt indeed, now, that they were not outlaws, but
patriots fighting against successful tyrants--the foes of their
country; even as the brave Hereward (so they had heard) was
fighting in the Camp of Refuge, amongst the fens of East Anglia.
And for Wilfred, the representative of a house which had ruled them
for centuries, the son of their lamented lord, who had died so
bravely at Senlac, they would one and all, if necessary, lay down
their lives.
On the morrow, at eventide, Father Kenelm returned from Aescendune,
horror struck, and brought the news of the burning of the abbey and
the lamentable fate of his brethren.
There was not an Englishman whose heart was not moved with
indignation and pity, nor one who failed to lay the burden of the
deed where our readers have long since, we doubt not, laid it--on
the head of Hugo.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150