blows. "Open! open!" he shouted with all
his might. "The enemy are coming forthwith
to slay you. Fly!"

Once inside the castle, he ran about with
desperate cries. "Up, caitiffs! Up with you,
ye wretched men! You will be all made into
mince-meat. Fly!" He then ran up-stairs and
reached the duke's door, beating the wall with
his stake and incessantly shouting, "Where
liest thou, Willame? Wherefore sleepest thou?
Thine enemies are arming; if they reach thee,
thou wilt not see the morning. Ah, poor
Willame, what art thou about? Th' art dismembered,
dead, if thou flee not. Doubt it not; I
saw them arming. Get up, fair friend. Quick!
Flee, lest thou be caught!"

The duke, alarmed, jumped out of bed,
crossed himself, and in shirt and trousers,
without hose or shoes, hastily threw on a short
riding cloak. Then, girding on his sword, he
hurried to the courtyard, mounted a strong and
spirited horse which a terrified chamberlain
presented, and disappeared in the shadows of
night. Scarcely had he left the château,
when the sound of cavalry reached his ear. It
was the troop of traitors coming to murder
him.

The conspirators soon entered the castle.
They searched every hole and corner, and found
their prey had escaped—a dangerous situation
for them. The duke was now their implacable
enemy, and would turn upon them relentlessly.
Beaten by him, they would be sure to lose
every inch of ground they possessed in
Normandy. Taken prisoners, they might expect
the punishment of felons and traitors to their
suzerain lord—an ignominious gibbet. Red
with rage, and making a desperate dash, "To
horse! to horse!" they furiously shouted.
"Death to the bastard! Let every man on
our side do his utmost to catch him!" Patting
spurs to their steeds, they galloped off in search
of the duke.

Meanwhile, William fled alone, as fast as his
horse could carry him, in the direction of the
fords of the Vire. The night was calm and
fine, with brilliant moonlight. Before daybreak,
the fugitive had traversed the Vire at low
water, by Saint Clement's ford, near Isigny.
On passing the church he recommended
himself to God, praying to be taken under his
holy protection and to be saved from his
enemies. After safely crossing the Vire, where the
rising tide would have offered an insurmountable
obstacle to his progress, he began to take
breath. He thought of his unhappy fate and
gave free course to the grief that oppressed
him. "Ever since he lost his father, his life
had been one continued struggle. Danger had
followed danger without truce or interval. Was
he soon to see the end of his misfortunes?
Would God take pity on his lot?"

But there was no time to lose; he must
choose his route. Unable to reckon on Bayeux,
he resolved to avoid it, following the coast by
the road which still bears his name, "La
Voie-le-Duc," the Duke's Way. When he
reached the village of Ryes the morning was
already far advanced.

The lord of the manor of Ryes, Hubert by
name, was a brave knight, a wise vavasseur,*
a man of honour if ever there was one. He
was on his way to hear mass when William,
unable to avoid him, met him full butt. He
recognised the duke, but could hardly believe
his eyes, beholding him unshod, unattended,
exhausted, scarcely able to keep his seat on a
horse whose sides were streaming with sweat
and blood.
* A vassal under a vassal.

"Sire," he said, raising his hands to heaven,
"What is this? Why are you wandering thus
alone? Hide nothing from me; confide in me.
I will save you, as if it were my own proper
body."

The duke at once told him all, knowing him
to be loyal, and adding, "I have not yet
escaped; my enemies are following me, I
know full well. If they catch me, I am a
dead man. Much need have I therefore of
your aid."

"Deus! Sainte Marie!" Hubert exclaimed.
"There is not a moment to be lost. Enter,
fair lord; I will give you a troop to conduct
and guard you."

"Friend of God, five hundred thanks!" cried
William, his hopes reviving at his vassal's zeal.

After offering some slight refreshment,
Hubert brought another horse, leading it himself
by the bridle. He called his own three sons,
and ordered them to start as soon as they had
girded on their swords. Then, pointing to the
duke, he said, "See here your lord, whom
perjured traitors are trying to kill. Watch over
his safety; let no harm reach him through your
fault. If great danger threaten, sacrifice
yourselves for him; if needs be, give yourselves in
exchange. While you have life defend him,
that he be not slain in your hands."

The sons bowed and joyfully promised.
Hubert told them the route they were to follow,
travelling by by-paths and avoiding populous
towns; then, seeing that all was ready, "Fair
children, mount!" he said. "Straight to
Falaise!"

The castle-gate opened, and the four gallant
coursers galloped across country without meeting
an obstacle, until they reached the banks
of the Orne. They crossed the river at the
ford of Foupendant† below Harcourt, between
Croisilles and Thiesménil, and soon, all gleeful,
reached Falaise. At the news of the danger
the duke had incurred, there was great mourning
throughout the town. According to Benoit's
quaint account, "five hundred good Falaisian
faces were moist."
† Fago pendente, the hanging beech, the beechwood
slope.

After William's departure, Hubert de Ryes
anxiously waited for what was to follow. Standing
on his drawbridge, he kept a sharp look-out.
Soon there came a troop of cavaliers,
whose horses appeared exhausted with fatigue.