"Thou mayst not join them if such be the case; thou wilt keep thy promise, my son." "Yes," said the tamed tiger cub, with a sigh; "yet I would fain know what my father is doing. Let us go on." Two more hours of forest travelling carried them far from the sound of the conflict and they gained the outskirts of the forest. Entering some nicely cultivated meadows, they came in sight of a small Norman priory, which Etienne had visited in earlier days, when out on woodland expeditions; for it was miles from Aescendune, and the way lay through the forest. "Farewell my son, I must leave thee here. They are thy countrymen in yonder cell, and will gladly entertain thee." "Thy blessing, my father." "It is thine, my son. Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God, and He will bless thee." Etienne sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, for he was very tired, and watched the departing figure of Father Kenelm. His eyes were dim, for he felt very much touched, for the time at least. But he was now restored to life and liberty, and no bird in the sky, no deer on the mountain, felt more blithe and happy than he soon began to feel. There is an old adage about the Evil One. It is said he became sick and wanted to be a monk, but when he became well--well--Was this the case with Etienne? Time will show: for the present we leave him blowing the horn suspended at the gate of St. Ouen's priory. CHAPTER XVI. RETRIBUTION. "Raro antecedentem scelestum Deseruit pede Poena claudo." It was midday, and the sun was pouring the full power of his noontide beams on the wilderness of reeds and flags which overspread the southern side of the Dismal Swamp, reposing on the treacherous surface of bog, quagmire, and quicksand. Signs of life there were none, save when the bittern rose from its nest, amidst the long reeds or sedgy grass, or the moor fowl flew over the surface of the inky water, which here and there collected into pools. The feeble hum of insects filled the air, but all else was peace and solitude. Save that there was a sign of life on the farther side of the Swamp--a solitary figure half concealed by bushes, stood watching on a promontory of firm land, looking anxiously--from his slight elevation over the surface of the fen. He was an aged man, who had seen some ninety summers; his long beard descended below the girdle which confined his brown tunic at the waist. It was Haga, the father of Ordgar. "My eyes are not what they were, and I see no sign as yet. Ah, here comes little Siward!" A boy of some twelve years approached him very silently, as if some serious business was about to be transacted, of such nature as to subdue boyish loquacity. "Come hither, Siward, my grandchild, and lend me thine eyes and ears, for mine are now dulled by age. Dost thou hear aught?" "I hear the bittern boom, and the woodpecker tap, but that is all." "Sit down by my side, and watch with me; the time is at hand." "Will my father be with them?"