"Thou hadst a brother once--a bright, laughing, fair-haired boy, whom thou didst love whilst father and mother lived. I speak of events long forgotten, save by me." "Nay, I have never forgotten him. Hast thou not often commemorated him amongst the faithful departed, at my request?" "Only as one, whom the world might yet contain in the body, or whose soul heaven might have received--I knew not which. Well, my lady, this thy brother yet lives." "Wilfred?" "And is returning home with thy husband." "Wilfred alive!--nay, thou jestest. He died at Oxenford and was buried there, nearly thirty years agone." "Geoffrey, then Bishop of Coutances, deceived the lad's enemies by a fictitious death and burial, but forbade the rescued youth to return home, or make his existence known, save to me." At this moment, the gleams, the parting beams, of the setting sun shone upon pennon and upon lance, issuing from the wood afar off. The multitude, who had assembled below, saw the sight, and rushed tumultuously forward to meet their kinsfolk. Hugh forgot the story about his uncle, ran down stairs, and joined the throng, who pressed over the bridge. Amidst the pomp of banners, the crash of trumpets, and the loud acclamations and cheers of the crowd, the Crusaders reached home, and entered the castle yard. Edith fell into the arms of her lord as he dismounted, then sought her son. She knew not to which to turn. A grave personage, who studied hard to maintain his composure, but whose eyes were filled with tears, had also dismounted, and was standing by. "Edith," cried Etienne, "behold our brother." And she fell upon his neck with a torrent of tears, as all the life of her childhood rushed upon her--"hours that were to memory dear." Only a few more lines are needed to dismiss the heroes and personages of our tale to rest. Wilfred spent a few happy days with his brother-in-law cheered by the society of his sister and her children. Between him and Etienne all clouds had departed; they had learned, amidst the perils of the return journey, to appreciate each other, and wondered they had ever been such foes. Once only he visited the Dismal Swamp, the scene of such exciting events in his earlier life. He found it an utter wilderness, not a house had been left standing; Etienne had wished to abolish the very remembrance of the scenes in which, as his conscience told him, he had acted so ill a part, and when he had succeeded in persuading the English to trust him, and return to Aescendune, he had fired the little hamlet and reduced it to ashes. The brook murmured in solitude and silence, the birds sang undisturbed by the strife of men. The scene of Edwin's death from the arrows of Etienne's followers could hardly be identified; but under the very tree where Pierre had fallen in stern retaliation, Wilfred knelt, and besought pardon for himself and rest for the soul which he had sent so hurriedly before the judgment seat.