And in a few minutes, all anxiety forgotten, Wilfred slept--slept heavily. Geoffrey watched him awhile, then departed.
The morrow, and a great multitude of spectators had arranged themselves around the slopes of the mound, just before sunrise.
On the tower itself stood Etienne de Malville, eager to see the end of his hated rival, and to make sure, by ocular evidence, of his death.
The morning was clear, after high dawn. The spectator on the tower looked towards the eastern hills, over the valley of the Cherwell, to see the sun arise above the heights of Headington.
It came at last--the signal of death: a huge arc of fire, changing rapidly into a semi-circle, and then into a globe. All the earth rejoiced around, but a shudder passed through the crowd.
The headsman leaned upon his axe, but no procession yet approached.
The sun was now a quarter of an hour high, when a murmur passed through the crowd that something had happened. At length the murmur deepened into a report that Wilfred had been found dead in his bed.
"Died," said some, "by the judgment of God."
"The better for him," said others.
And there were even those who murmured bitterly that they were disappointed of the spectacle, which they had left their beds to witness. Such unfeeling selfishness is not without example in modern times.