"At sundown."
"God of Mercy! he must not die. Wouldst thou slay thy son?"
"He is not my son by blood—I only meant by adoption."
"Listen, Brian Fitz-Count, to words of solemn truth, although thou wilt find them hard to believe. He is thine own son—the son of thy bowels."
Brian felt as if his head would burst beneath the aching brain. A cold sweat bedewed him.
"Prove it," he said.
"I will. Brian Fitz-Count, I am Wulfnoth of Compton."
"Thou? I slew thee on the downs in mortal combat."
"Nay, I yet breathed. The good monks of Dorchester passed by and brought me here. I took the vows, and here I am. Now listen: thou didst slay my loved and dearest ones, but I can forgive thee now. Canst thou in turn forgive me?"