Looking through the chinks in the shutters, Etienne gazed inside.
It was the farmhouse occupied by a former lord, Elfwyn of Aescendune, during the Danish invasions, as recorded in a former Chronicle, and was larger and more commodious than usual in those days. There were several smaller houses, or rather huts, around; but if they had inmates, they were all silent--perhaps asleep, for the hour was late.
Beside a fire, kindled beneath a large open chimney, such as were then in use in the bettermost houses--for the poor were content with a hole in the roof--sat a youth of some sixteen years of age, busily attending to a large pot over the fire, from which, from time to time, savoury fumes ascended, the odour of which gladdened even the olfactory organs of our young Norman aristocrat.
Etienne knew him: it was Eadwin, the son of Wilfred's old nurse, for whom he had an ancient grudge, which he at once resolved to gratify.
He summoned Ralph and the rest who had escaped the morass--they were only ten in number, the others had succumbed to the horrors of that fearful night.
Yet even so, the impulses of pride and cruelty were not subdued in the heart of Etienne, son of Hugo.
"The English robbers have left their haunt for a time; doubtless they were the fellows who passed us in the forest, and there is but one boy left in charge, of whom I know something; we will seize him and learn the truth."
"Suppose they come back while we tarry here?"
"We will set a watch to warn us in good time."
Etienne stepped lightly to the door; it was actually unbarred, so secure did the English feel in this hitherto inaccessible retreat, and his hand was on the shoulder of his intended victim before he had taken the alarm. He turned round and started violently as he recognised his ancient enemies, then made a vain attempt to gain the door, which was immediately and easily frustrated.