"Wulfnoth of Compton."
Osric started.
"Doth he live?"
"He doth."
"Where?"
"He is a monk of Dorchester Abbey. I may tell the secret now; Brian himself could not hurt him there."
"Why should he wish to hurt him?"
"Listen, and your ears shall learn the truth. Thy father was my guest in this hut. Seventeen years ago this last autumn he had been hunting all day, and was on the down above, near the mound where Holy Birinus once preached, as the sun set, when he perceived, a few miles away, the flames of a burning house, and knew that it was his own, for he lived in a recess of the downs far from other houses. He hurried towards the scene, sick with fear, but it was miles away, and when he reached the spot he saw a dark band passing along the downs, a short distance off, in the opposite direction. His heart told him they were the incendiaries, but he stopped not for vengeance. Love to his wife and children hurried him on. When he arrived the roof had long since fallen in; a few pitying neighbours stood around, and shook their heads as they saw him, and heard his pitiful cries for his wife and children. Fain would he have thrown himself into the flames, but they restrained him, and told him he had one child yet to live for, accidentally absent at the house of a neighbour.—It was thou, my son."
"But who had burnt the house? Who had slain my poor mother, and my brothers and sisters, if I had any?"
"Brian Fitz-Count, Lord of Wallingford."