CHAPTER XX. THE MESSENGER FROM THE CAMP OF REFUGE. A fortnight only had passed since the scenes described in our last chapter, and we must again take our readers to Aescendune. It was the hour of the evening meal in the castle hall where so lately Hugo sat in his pride, and in his place sat his youthful rival, Wilfred. Scarcely of age, the vicissitudes of his life had made a man of him before his time, and a stranger would have credited him with many more years than he really possessed. His face was bronzed with the sun, and his features had assumed all the appearance of early manhood, while there was a gravity in his expression befitting a born leader of men, such as his warlike grandfather, Alfgar, had been in the old Danish wars sixty years earlier. The accustomed features of an English feast, as distinct from a Norman banquet, have been dwelt upon too often in these Chronicles to need recapitulation here, and we shall only beg our readers to suppose the eating over, the wine and mead handed round, and the business of the evening begun. The hall was crowded; all the ancient vassals of the house of Aescendune, who yet survived, were present, and many new faces. By the side of Wilfred sat a distinguished guest, an East Anglian, to whom all present paid much attention. The occasion was one of much gravity; only that evening messengers had arrived, bringing the serious announcement that William the mighty Conqueror, with a force said to be numerous as the leaves of the trees, was at hand, and the gathering had been assembled to discuss the measures expedient in the common danger. There was deep silence; the summer twilight alone illumined the grave faces of the English guests and vassals of Aescendune, as Wilfred arose to address them. "Englishmen and brethren," he began, "we have not invited you all to share our evening meal on an occasion of idle ceremony--many of you have heard the news I have to tell, and more will anticipate them. The usurper, the bloodstained oppressor of our race is at hand; he rests this night at Warwick, with a force far exceeding any that we can gather to meet him; their lances might uphold the skies, their arrows darken the heavens. All the robber barons of note are there; the butcher priest Ode, who smote with the mace at Hastings, because he might not shed blood, the fierce Lord of Oxford, the half Danish Harcourt, Arundel, Talbot, Maltravers, Peveril, Morton--all swell the train which has advanced to the destruction of our faint hope of liberty in the Midlands, our trust that at least old Mercia may defy the despoiler." "Let us die, then, like brave men," was the cry of many, "since we cannot live as freemen."