"Nay, he belongeth not to the proud race of our oppressors; he is
an old serf of thy house. Dost thou remember Beorn the woodman?"

"Who slew the deer and sold them in secret, and when the deed was
discovered, fled?"

"The same; it is he."

"But what harm hath he done so great that he should come here to
ask forgiveness? 'Twas a small matter; at least, it seems so now."

"My son, that is not the matter he hath to confess."

"What is it, then?"

"Prepare thyself, my dear child; now be composed; you must resign
yourself to God's will."

"Tell me, father, and end this suspense. What is amiss?"

"Nay, he must do that; I wanted to prepare thee; but tis about thy
mother."

Wilfred turned pale at once and trembled, for the one passion which
divided his soul with hatred to the Normans was love for the memory
of his parents. What had the man got to say about his mother?

"But this is not constancy and firmness--thou quakest like an aspen
leaf."