"He has not starved; we have had other friends, but the famine has been sore in the land."
"Yes; especially the good monks of Dorchester."
Judith pursed up her lips, as much as to say, "That is my secret, and if you had brought the thumb-screws, of which you know the use too well, you should not get it out of me."
"Osric, I am dying. They say the tongues of dying men speak sooth, and it may be because, as the gates of eternity open before them, the vanities of earth disappear. Now I have a last message to leave for you, a tale to unfold before I die, which cannot fail of its effect upon your heart. It is the secret entrusted to me when you were brought an infant to this hut, which I was forbidden to unfold until you had gained years of discretion. It may be, my dear child, you have not yet gained them--I trow not, from what I hear."
"What harm have mine enemies told of me?"
"_That_ thou shalt hear by and by; meanwhile let me unfold my tale, for the sands of life are running out. It was some seventeen years ago this last autumn, that thy father----"
"Who was he--thou hast ever concealed his name?"
"He is a monk of Dorchester Abbey. I may tell the secret now; Brian himself could not hurt him there."
"Listen, and your ears shall learn the truth. Thy father was my guest in this hut. Seventeen years ago this last autumn he had been hunting all day, and was on the down above, near the mound where Holy Birinus once preached, as the sun set, when he perceived, a few miles away, the flames of a burning house, and knew that it was his own, for he lived in a recess of the downs far from other houses. He hurried towards the scene, sick with fear, but it was miles away, and when he reached the spot he saw a dark band passing along the downs, a short distance off, in the opposite direction. His heart told him they were the incendiaries, but he stopped not for vengeance. Love to his wife and children hurried him on. When he arrived the roof had long since fallen in; a few pitying neighbours stood around, and shook their heads as they saw him, and heard his pitiful cries for his wife and children. Fain would he have thrown himself into the flames, but they restrained him, and told him he had one child yet to live for, accidentally absent at the house of a neighbour.--It was thou, my son."