Wulfhere and a trusty comrade are standing together at the foot of a gigantic oak in an adjoining wood. The capacious trunk tells that for many centuries it has looked down upon its contemporaries. The decayed and verdureless branches, clustered around its centre, tell also that the process of decay has been progressing for a longer span of time than is permitted in the life of mortals. If we ascend it for a few yards we shall find that, just where its stout limbs divide themselves from the bole, a yawning cavern has taken the place of its once stout heart, into which a man would find no difficulty in descending. "I think there are none of the enemy on the alert, and we may venture," said Wulfhere to his companion. So saying, he mounted the tree and disappeared in the recess, and, sliding down until he reached the ground, he quietly removed some leaves and other _débris_; then there was visible a trap-door, which he raised, revealing a flight of steps, which he descended, followed by his companion. Drawing forth a horn lantern, with tinder-box and flint, he struck a light, and the pair began slowly marching along in the direction of the castle. But they had not proceeded very far before they were saluted by a familiar voice. "What ho, Wulfhere! what are you venturing?" After the first violent consternation, Wulfhere found his tongue. "We essayed a rescue, my lord, but you have saved us the trouble. How is this? We scarcely hoped to find you alive at this time, much less a free man." "A miracle, Wulfhere! I account it a miracle, for I am as one given back from the dead. But more anon. Let us haste for the present, for I tremble lest it should turn out that it is but a dream, and that there will follow a horrid awakening." The trio quickly retraced their steps, and stood together in the wood, Wulfhere uttering a series of peculiar calls well known to every Saxon comprising the band of rescuers. Quickly, one by one, they rallied to the spot; and when they saw their chieftain safe and well their demonstrations of joy were most exuberant--almost frantic--many of them dancing round him like satyrs in the dim light of the wood, each and all most anxiously demanding by what strange chance he had obtained his liberty. As they hastily retreated to the hills, Oswald briefly related to his followers the circumstances of his release by two Norman women, who at dead of night had boldly opened the prison door and unfettered him--Oswald carefully laying upon his followers the injunction that no harm should be done to the Norman women, and that special regard should be paid to the Norman lady, daughter of Count de Montfort. He also enjoined upon them the strictest secrecy as to the agents who had taken part in it. * * * * *