The November evening was setting in drearily, the fast-fading gleams of daylight were disappearing amidst thickly-falling snow--it was the hour when tired mortals shut doors and windows, turn instinctively to the cheerful hearth, and while they hear the wind roar without, thank God they are sheltered from its blasts; and perhaps think with some pity of poor homeless wanderers, in pathless forests, or on dismal moors. Troop after troop, the wearied and dispirited Normans returned from their fruitless chase, till all were safely housed, save one unhappy band. First came the wicked old baron himself, with all his twenty retainers, safe and sound, then Bernard de Torci, who had won to himself an English wife and the manor of Wylmcotte; then Gilbert D'Aubyn of Bearleigh. One after another the troops came in from the outer darkness, white with snow, and shook their mantles and jerkins in the guard chamber within the entrance archway, after which their leaders repaired to the bathroom--for, in their way, the Norman warriors were luxurious--and afterwards, perfumed and anointed, donned the festal robes in which they hoped to dazzle the eyes of the fair, if such were to be found in the Castle of Aescendune. The hour appointed for the banquet was the first hour of the night--six in the evening we should now call it--and the Majordomo sought his lord. He found him risen from the bath and vested in flowing robes of richest texture, with an ermine mantle around his shoulders. "The banquet is ready, my lord, but the guests have not all arrived." "Has my son returned?" "He has not come back yet, my lord. Shall I delay the banquet?" "Are all the others in?" "Sir Eustace de Senville has not yet come from the forest." "Let it be delayed half an hour." The old servant shook his head--the roast meats were done to a turn, and he feared the reputation of the ten cooks, who had toiled the long afternoon before the fires, might suffer. The baron paced impatiently up and down his chamber. There is some redeeming feature in the hearts of the worst of us: even Lady Macbeth could not herself slay King Duncan, "he looked so like her father," and the one weak point in the armour of proof--of selfishness, we should say--which encrusted Hugo de Malville, was his love for his son. Etienne was to him as the apple of his eye; and little wonder--the qualities which, we doubt not, nay, we trust, disfigure that amiable youth in the minds of our gentle readers--his pride, his carelessness for the bodily or mental sufferings of others--all these things were nought to the Norman noble, he loved to see his son stark and fierce, and smiled as he heard of deeds which better men would have sternly refused to condone. He almost longed for war--for some rebellion on the part of the English--that Etienne might flesh his sword and win his spurs, and, as we see, that wish, at least, was gratified.