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.
"Forgive thee what?"
"Tell him all, my son, and ease thy burdened mind."
The thrall then spake, in words interrupted by gasps and sighs, which we must needs omit as we piece his narrative together for the benefit of our readers.
"It is five years since I fled thy father's face, fearing his wrath, for I had slain his red deer and sold them for filthy lucre. Woe is me! I had better have trusted to his mercy and borne my fitting punishment; but, as Satan tempted me, I fled to the great city, where men are crowded together thick as bees in swarming time, to hide myself amongst many. There I was like to starve, and none gave me to eat, when a Jew who saw my distress, took pity on me and gave me shelter.