"Tell me, was aught amiss in my mother's death?"

"Didst thou ever suspect it?"

"Yes, but I put the thought away, as though it came from Satan."

"Well, poor child, thou wilt know now, and God help thee to bear it
rightly."

Trembling and astonished, Wilfred followed the prior into an
adjoining cell, where, propped up by cushions, lay the attenuated
form of a dying man--the death sweat already on his brow, standing
thereon in beads--the limbs rigid as a recent convulsion had left
them.

Any one conversant in the signs which immediately precede death
could have told that he had but a short time to live. The good
monk, who was supporting him and breathing words of Christian hope
into his ears, left him as the prior and Wilfred entered.

The prior took the monk's place, and supported the head of the
penitent.

"Look," he said, as he raised him upon his arm, "Wilfred of
Aescendune, the son of thy late lord."

The poor wretch groaned--such a deep hollow groan.

"Canst thou forgive me?" he said.