Some people bring home a bundle of sketches from their summer holiday—water-colour memories of cliff, of sea, ruined castle, and ancient abbey. I brought back from the Channel Islands these pages here printed, as a kind of bundle of sketches in black and white, put together day by day as a holiday-task, and forming a string, as it were, on which the memories of ramble after ramble were threaded,—rambles from end to end of Guernsey, and rambles, too, among the treasures of the Guille-Allés Library. I enjoyed my holiday all the better, as I peopled the cliffs and glens with the shadows of eight hundred years ago, and I hope that others may find some reality and some pleasure in the result as it is given here.

W.J. FERRAR.

HISTORICAL NOTES.

And the abbot, sitting in his carven chair amid his rolls of parchment and instruments of writing, raised me swiftly as I stooped to kiss his hand. Dark-eyed, hawk-nosed, with black hair not yet flecked with snow, there was an awe and stateliness in him whether he spoke to gentle or to simple. He was a Norman, and being such feared none, and had his will, and when it was possible mixed a rare gentleness with his acts and words.

"Son," said he, "thou hast been happy here?"

The keen eyes were fixed upon me, and I could not but answer the truth, even had I wished to lie.

"Yes, holy father," I answered.

"Ah, no, holy Father." I had gained my tongue, and spoke boldly, if reverently. "Books and prayer are good; but I am young, and there is a world beyond these grey walls, and my kinsmen fight and do rather than pray or read."

"The eaglet beats his wings against his cage already," said the abbot, kindly; "it is indeed a shapely bird. Thou art right, lad. There is a world outside, where men strive and fight and do—how blindly and how wildly thou knowest not. But the battle is not to the strong or the race to the swift, though so it seem. Go, then, out into the world boldly but warily, and be thou a good soldier, as thou art a good scholar. Thine uncle shall know of these words between us."

I knelt again and kissed his hand, and left his broad and pleasant chamber.

I knew not then; but I know now, what that voice was, that yearning, that discontent with the past. It was the Norman blood rising within me, the blood of force, and battle, and achievement. Surely there is something in us Normans—a hidden fire, which sends us forth and onwards, and makes us claim what we will for our own! And having claimed it, we fight for it, and fighting we win it. So with Tancred of Hauteville, so with Rou, so with William. Will of iron, heart of fire! A grand thing it is to be born a Norman.

Now, the Castle had been built some forty years before, by none other than the great Cherbourg himself, Duke Robert's engineer. For it chanced that Duke Robert was royally entertained years ago by Abbot Magloirios, when he was forced by foul weather to put into L'Ancresse Bay, who, on his departure, left Cherbourg and other skilled men to build three castles for their safety against pirates. So it was through Duke Robert's stay at the Vale that our Castle was made so strong. Thus God brought here, as ever, good out of evil.

Now, about this Castle of late men had been more than ever busy. Sundry instruments of besieged men of a new and deadly fashion lay in the armoury, and were at times by Brother Hugo brought out and practised by the brethren that formed, as he said, his corps d'armes. Then were they soldiers indeed, not monks at all, as, cassock and cowl thrown aside, they drew the bows, or aimed with their great engines the balls of stone and iron.

Now, it was in those days that the abbot sent me on matters more heavy than I knew to that archbishop of whom I have already made mention, who, his state laid aside, lay in exile as a poor humble man, though Duke William's uncle, in a small moat-house, by name Blanchelande, with little land attached beyond the forest of St. Pierre, and hard by the bay of the Saints of God.

Now, when abbot Michael gave me the missive into my hand, there was a look in his face that seemed to ask if I feared the journey; but I took it readily and heartily, and turned to go.

"Stay," said the abbot, as I went. "Bring me word how my Lord Archbishop takes my letter, what he says, how he looks. Bring me his slightest word, his least look. Thou art quick and clever. Do my bidding as a good lad should. Thou hast naught to fear of such as he."

So I went forth boldly, leaving the Vale behind me, and within an hour had entered among the trees that part it from the forest land.

I stood a long time fixed to the ground, and then with a great effort I stole noiselessly away, and, once on the beaten track, I hasted on to the moat-house.

With a heart that I could hear beating, I turned my back on the bay, and, crossing the little drawbridge, craved of a warder at the gate—half fisher, half ecclesiastic, in a frayed frock and seamen's shoes—an audience of my Lord the Archbishop for the delivery of a missive from the Abbot of the Vale, that must be delivered into his hand alone.

I stood firm before him, and humbly showed him that the second scroll fell out of the first. Then he turned suddenly upon his heel and went towards the window, and looking forth upon the bay below in a few moments calmed himself, read what was writ on the first scroll, and with an air of unconcern tossed them to a corner of the table.

"Thou knowest naught of these papers, lad?" he said at length.

"Naught, my lord, in good faith, save that I bore them hither."

"And thou didst well to do that," he said, "for here is a matter dangerous to me, as thou sawest by mine anger. Your good abbot hath done well to send me this letter by thee."

I answered not, since it was not for me to speak, and yet I craved to know what could be in the second scroll to move him so.

"May I return with your grace's greeting or other message to my lord?" I said.

I said I could, but I thought that there was an ill lie behind his words.

"Hist, good lad, what is thy name?" said he.

"Nigel de Bessin, nephew of the Vicomte of St. Sauveur," I answered.

He pondered and gazed at me curiously. "Ay, well I knew thy grandsire, the old vicomte," said he. "And thine uncle has had of me other gifts than shriving."

Now it came into my heart to ask him of my father, since he knew my grandsire and my uncle; so I said boldly—

"And didst thou know my father?"

"Ay, I knew him—I knew him," said he; "but what do they tell thee of him?"

"Nothing, in sooth, my lord," I answered; "and bid me wait till my pupilage is over."

"Then I may tell thee naught more than thou knowest, save that we were good friends. Thou wilt not long be bearing missives for your abbot, if thou art like thy sires. Thou art soon for Normandy?"

And the thought entering into my mind that here was something more than human, he seemed to guess it, and said with a smile that was hard and keen—

"Nor is there wizardry therein, save the wizardry of a lonely man, that devises new solace for his loneliness."

A pasty was ere long set before us and a flask of wine, whereof we both partook.

"Say not," said he, "that my lord of Rouen sends his guests hungry away."

I stayed not to chatter with fishermen or priest to-day; but hasted on, and at length the little tower of St. Sampson arose before me, and ere long I was at the abbot's lodging.

The abbot paced up and down his orchard and garden of flowers.

"Thou art late, my son," said he. "Did my lord detain you?"

"My lord," I said, "was very kind and gentle, far beyond that I dreamed possible, and kept me with good entertainment and choice converse far into the day."

"And my lord was pleasing to thy taste?" said Abbot Michael, with a strange smile, not like his own, that I knew not.

"How may I, holy Father," answered I, "speak aught but well of him, who did me no ill, but good only? And, indeed, my lord spake to me out of his store of knowledge, as to one not ignorant and young; but, indeed, like himself in age and state. And yet, in good faith, he pleased me not at first."

"There seemed indeed, Father, somewhat that I distrusted, and then his passion at the opening of thy scroll was terrible to see."

"Ay, was he moved? And what said he when he perceived that inner scroll?" inquired the abbot.

"Moved, Father! I thought he might have done some deadly deed. But he calmed himself at length."

"And what sent he in return?"

"Nothing in writing," I answered, "but this by my mouth—that the inner scroll was the writing of some foe of other days, who thus strikes at a fallen man."

The abbot mused in silence at this reply, and took a pace or two beside his lily border. Then he gazed seriously at me for a moment, and bade me walk by his side.

"Thou hast seen to-day, son, one of the world's schemers, and thou hadst been, as was natural, deceived by him. With ill men first impressions are the true ones. Thou hadst been more than a stripling of the cloister, and we had taught thee over well for thy years, had he, whose power has lain in such arts, not made thee love him in spite of thyself. Son, dost thou know why this Maugher lies here in exile?"

"Indeed, my son, they said so, and strong were the archbishop's words when Duke William wedded against God's law. But thou wilt learn, that words and censures of Holy Church are too oft like daggers and knives in the hands of evil men in high places of the Church—and such was this censure of the marriage of Matilda in the hand of Maugher. He would have cut his way with it—dost thou know whither, son?"

"Whither, Father?"

"My son, to the dukedom itself, Churchman though he was."

I listened in astonishment, and an air of doubt must have shone out from my innocent eyes, that never knew to hide the thought within.

"Wouldst thou have proof of this that I say, and know how even to-day this serpent in our island-grass bites at the heel of princely authority?" the abbot asked.

"Read here, and here," said he, "and understand how this cursed man would incite milder men to shed Duke William's blood!"