master's orders, set fire to it. William was riding near the town afterwards, when his horse happened to tread upon a hot cinder, and began to plunge and rear. The king was so bruised that he had to be taken off his horse and carried to Rouen, a city of Normandy, where he died. The following story is told about the circumstances of his death. You must know, though, that he had made a law to the effect that a bell, called the curfew bell, should ring every night at eight o'clock, and that then all fires and lights were to be put out.

THE CURFEW.

IN each New England village
At nine o'clock at night,
Still rings old England's curfew,
And says,-Put out the light!
Then tell they to their children
Of long, long years ago,
The tale of Battle Abbey,

How they fought with shaft and bow.

But here's another story

New England sons may tell,

How he that bade the curfew

Heard an unbidden bell.
And let the boy that listens
Which best he liketh say,

The bell that rings for darkness

Or the bell that rings for day.

When William lay a-dying,

All dull of eye and dim,
And he that conquered Harold
Felt One that conquered him,
He recked not of the minutes,
The midnight, or the morn,
But there he lay-unbreathing
As the babe that is still-born.

But suddenly a bell tolled,

He started from the swound, First glared, and then grew gentle, Then wildly stared around.

He deemed 'twas bell at even

To quench the Saxon's coal;

But oh, it was a curfew

To quench his fiery soul!

"Now prithee, holy father!

What means this bell, I pray?

Is it curfew time in England,
Or am I far away?

God wot-it moves my spirit,

As if it even might be The bells of mine own city, In dear old Normandy."

"Ay, sire-thou art in Rouen, And 'tis the prayer-bell's chime,

In the steeple of St. Mary's,

That tolls the hour of prime !"

Then bid them pray for William,
And may the Virgin-born,

In the Church of His sweet mother,
Hear their praying this blest moru.
Little dream the kneeling people

Who joins them in their prayers,
They deem not stout King William
Their Pater noster* shares,
Nor see they how he lifteth

With theirs, his dying hand;
The hand that from the Saxon
Tore the crown of fair England.

Nor heard they as, responding
To their chanting, oft he sighed,
Till rose their De Profundis,

And the mighty Norman died.
But I have thought, who knoweth
But if that early toll,

Like the contrite malefactor's,

Waked a dying sinner's soul!

A. C. Cox.

CHAPTER IV.

WILLIAM II. (Surnamed Rufus), 1087-1100.

You remember that Robert, the eldest son of the late king, had offended his father; and therefore the throne of England was left to William, Robert only receiving the Duchy of Normandy. Of course he did not like this, "Our Father."

and made an attempt to turn William out; however, he failed in doing so, and soon afterwards went to the holy wars. And here I must tell you what these wars were.

You know that Palestine, where our Lord lived when He was on earth, is often called the Holy Land. For years and years after He had ascended to heaven, and after the apostles were dead, people used to go from all parts of Europe to the Holy Land, in order to see the places where Christ and his apostles had lived and laboured. But most of all did Christians like to visit the Holy City, as Jerusalem was called. From its streets they would wander up the Mount of Olives, or into the Garden of Gethsemane; and dearer still to many travellers was the sepulchre where Christ's body had lain.

There is nothing strange in the feeling that Christians had about this grave. We like to go to the churchyards or cemeteries where the bodies of any whom we love are resting; we even care to look at the grave of a great man, although we may never have seen him; and so it is not surprising that Christians liked to see the Holy Land where for their sakes their Master had been crucified and buried.

Now it often happens that a right feeling may change into a mistaken one. At first people went to Palestine from much the same sort of feeling that would make us visit the grave of a dear friend. We like to see that it is kept in order; we think the sight of that grave will remind us of our friend; he has given us good advice— we often forget it, but we must remember it when we stand by his grave. But let us suppose such a case as this: A little girl might lose her wise father whom she loved; but it would not therefore be right for her to

spend hours crying over his tomb, instead of trying to do

her work at home.

take very like this.

But Christians long ago made a mis

They thought that nothing was so pleasing to God as going to the Sepulchre, and that it did not matter what home duties were left undone. So every year found more and more travellers, or pilgrims, as they were called, going to Jerusalem.

For many years these men went there without difficulty, but after some time Palestine was conquered by the Saracens, a nation of unbelievers, who thought no fun greater than persecuting and ill-treating Christian pilgrims. Now about the time of which I am writing there was, among the pilgrims at Jerusalem, a man of rather strange disposition, whose name was Peter. He was called Peter the Hermit, because for years he had lived alone. There were many such hermits in those days-men who lived alone, thinking that if they did not mix with other people they should be less likely to do wrong. Perhaps Peter had got tired of his lonely life-perhaps he had found out it was no easier to be good alone than in company; at any rate, for some reason or other, he went to the Holy Land. When there he saw one pilgrim after another beaten, robbed, and persecuted by the cruel Turks. His blood boiled. But what could he do? Fight the Turks alone! The idea was ridiculous. Go back to his hermitage home to have the remembrance of the shrieks of the Christians ringing in his ears by day, and to sleep but to dream of horrors! No! he determined to go from one city of Europe to another, describing in each the terrible sights he had seen, in order that the people might be persuaded to fight the Turks.