Ho addressed a few words to the guards, and they led him to Alfgar.

"Cut him loose," he said.

They did so.

He looked mournfully yet sternly on the youth, who himself trembled all over with emotion.

"Alfgar," he said, "do I indeed see my son?"

"You do, my father."

"Follow me; nay, you are wounded—lean on my arm."

Alfgar's thigh had, it will be remembered, been pierced by an arrow, but the wound was not deep, and with his father's assistance he could proceed. He knew where Anlaf led. At length they came upon a deserted clearing, and there he paused until Alfgar, who could scarcely keep up, stood by his side.

Before them the moonbeams fell upon a dark charred mass of ruins in the centre of the space.

"This is the spot where father and son should meet again," said Anlaf and he embraced his son.



CHAPTER VII. FATHER AND SON.

"Here, my son," said the old warrior, as he pointed out the blackened ruins, "here stood our home, where now the screech owl haunts, and the wolf has its den. There, where the broken shaft yet remains, was the chamber in which thou first sawest the light, and wherein thy mother died there, where snake and toad have their home, was the great hall. Surely the moonbeams fall more peacefully on the spot now all has been avenged, and the halls of the murderers have fallen in their turn. But how didst thou escape?"

"The folk of Aescendune saved me, father."

"But how; from the burning pile?"

"Nay. I had spent the previous day with them, and returned home only in time to find the place in flames. The enemy seized me, and would have slain me, but Elfwyn and his brother, Father Cuthbert, delivered me; and now thou hast slain their Bertric, and burnt both hall and priory."

"Think not that I owe them gratitude for aught they have done. They tampered with thy faith, I now apprehend, even before the night of St. Brice, and perhaps drew from thee the knowledge which enabled them to surprise so large a party in my house. But all this was to make thee abandon the gods of thy fathers, and to inflict the worst injury they could upon a warrior. I trust they have failed!"

"Father, I am a Christian!"

"Say not that again, boy, if thou would not have me kill thee."

"I can but say it, father. In all that touches not my faith and duty as a Christian, I am bound to love, honour, and obey you. But our religion forbids me to nourish revenge."

"Of what religion, pray, were they who would have slain thy father on St. Brice's night?"

Alfgar hung his head.

"When Christians practise themselves what they teach, then we will heed their pretensions, but not till then. Their religion is but a cloak for their cowardice, and they put it aside as a man throws away a useless garment when they have the chance of slaying their foes without danger."

"There are good and bad Christians, father."

"Commend me to the bad ones then. Do not speak to me of a religion which makes men cowards and slaves. These English were warriors once, till the Pope and his bishops converted them, and now what are they? cruel and treacherous as ever, only without the courage of men."

Alfgar felt the injustice of all this, and with the example of Bertric in his mind, he cared nor for the accusation of cowardice.

"Here, then, my boy, on this spot where thou wert once cradled, renounce all these Christian follies and superstitions, and thou shalt go back with me to the camp of King Sweyn, where thou shalt be received as the descendant of warrior kings, and shalt forget that thou, the falcon, wert ever the inmate of the dovecote."

There was a time when this temptation would have been almost irresistible, but that time was over, and after one earnest prayer for strength from above, Alfgar replied.

"My father, if you claim my obedience, I must even go with you to your people, but it will be to my death. I have said I am a Christian."

"And dost thou think I have found thee—thee, my only son—to part with thee again so easily? nay, thou art and shalt be mine, and, if not mine, then thou shalt be the grave's; for either thou shalt live as thy ancestors have lived, a warrior and a hero, or the earth shall cover thee and my disgrace together."

"Father, I can die."

"Thou dost not fear death then?"

"Thou hast left one behind thee—one who did not fear to die the martyr's death."

"Dost thou mean Bertric of Aescendune?"

"I do; they slew him, cruelly, although neither he nor his have ever dealt cruelly with thy people."

"Thy people, why not our people? art thou ashamed of thy kindred?"

"Of their cruelty and treachery."

Anlaf laughed aloud.

"Cruelty and treachery indeed! and canst thou say that here? who set the example in this place?

"Come boy, come," he continued, "I will lead thee to those who shall soon talk or drive all this Christian nonsense out of your young head; meanwhile, do not disgrace yourself and me by attempting to escape."

Alfgar sighed, and accompanied his father, so inopportunely found, back to the camp.

Arrived there, the word was given at once to mount, and the whole party started on the return journey to the south. Alfgar cast a longing glance behind at the spot where he knew all that was mortal of poor Bertric was left, to be, so far as the Danes cared, the prey of the wolf or the kite; but the young Dane knew well that, if any were yet alive at Aescendune, the hallowed temple of the martyr would not want its due honour.

All his heart was with his English friends; he felt that in going to the Danish camp he was really going to his death, for although within a few years the conversion of the Northmen took place, yet at this period their hatred of Christianity was simply ferocious, and his father belonged to the old heathen conservatives of his day, as did all his kinsfolk.

"O Aescendune, once happy Aescendune!" was the thought, the bitter thought, as each hour placed a larger barrier of space between Alfgar and his late home; all its happy memories came freshly back upon him, and particularly the thought of Ethelgiva, his betrothed, from whom he was so ruthlessly torn, torn as if he left part of himself behind.

They reached the confines of the forest by daybreak. Before them stretched an open country, where wild heaths alternated with cornfields, and wooded hills were of frequent occurrence upon the landscape.

All at once a signal of caution was given, and the whole party retired again within the cover of the wood, where they could see, for they were on an eminence, the whole district before them without being seen.

A body of fifty English soldiers was passing on the road, which lay at the distance of a few hundred yards only, travelling at a considerable speed, as if they anticipated the emergency of Aescendune, and hurried to the rescue. Alfgar knew them at once; they were Elfwyn and his troops; oh, if they had but arrived earlier, thought he, and started to see how completely English his sympathies were.

The Danes found it hard to repress their laughter at the thought of the reception which awaited the travellers at home; they had no idea of spoiling it by attacking them, although the numbers were about equal; besides, they had got all the plunder and spoil, and a battle would only endanger the success already obtained. So they lay in cover until the last straggler had disappeared in the direction of Aescendune, and then continued their course, with many a jest at the expense of the English.

Anlaf watched his son; he knew what his feelings were, and his thoughts were bitter as he felt that, could Alfgar have been consulted, he would be in that English band.

That night they arrived on the banks of the Thames, near Reading, the border of Mercia. Their passage had been quite unopposed; all the fighting men were in Wessex; and those who had seen the Danish party had fled with terror—they had not stopped long to plunder, but had speared one or two unfortunate victims who fell in their way, a sight which sickened Alfgar.

The following day they continued their march to the southeast, sometimes hiding in woods, for the country was mainly occupied by Ethelred's troops; sometimes pursued by larger bodies of horsemen, but always successful in distancing them, until, at the approach of eventide, they came in sight of the entrenched camp of the northern host. The spot was on the northern borders of the ancient kingdom of Sussex—the land of the Saxon Ella—a spot marvelously favoured by nature, occupying the summit of a low hill, which commanded a wide prospect on all sides, while itself almost impregnable when fortified, as it was, by ditches and mounds, dug in the usual Danish fashion, for the Danes owed much of their success to their skill in fortification.

Beautiful in time of peace was the country around, but its desolation was sufficient to sicken the heart. Blackened ruins lay on every side for miles; nay, they had disfigured the whole day's journey. Scarcely a town or hall, unless strongly fortified, had they seen standing, and this for nearly fifty miles.

Within this fortified enclosure the Northmen had collected abundance of spoil, and there they detained many prisoners, whom they held to ransom, putting them to death with the utmost cruelty if the money were not forthcoming at the stipulated time.

When the party of Anlaf arrived at the northern gate, crossing the summit of the ascent on that side, they found it open and almost unguarded, so slight was the danger from the dispirited English—now too accustomed to the idea of a foe in the heart of the land.

Entering, they beheld a strange scene: huts rudely constructed of the branches of trees, intermingled sparingly with tents, were disposed at regular intervals. In the centre, where the main streets crossed, was the royal tent, with the raven banner floating therefrom; and there, at that moment, was the savage tyrant Sweyn in person.

Sweyn was the son of Harold Bluetooth, who reigned in Denmark fifty years, from A.D. 935-985, and who in his old age became a Christian and strove to convert his subjects. But the ferocious warriors rebelled against him, and were headed by his unnatural son, Sweyn, who, although baptized, renounced Christianity, and fought to restore the bloodstained worship so congenial to the heart of a sea king. Defeated in battle, the unhappy father fled for his life, and fled in vain, for he was either murdered or died of his wounds.

Sweyn then became king, restored idolatry, and gratified to the full the fell instincts of his savage followers. His great object was now not merely to plunder, but to conquer England, and all his campaigns were so directed as to reduce province after province. Sussex and Kent were now wholly powerless; East Anglia was little better; Wessex trembled, for every inlet was a path for the robbers, and the turn of Mercia drew near.

Sweyn stood at the door of his tent, leaning upon his ponderous battle-axe; around him were two or three warriors, whose grey hairs had not softened the look of ferocity so plainly stamped upon their faces.

The king was not in armour, but wore a kind of close-fitting tunic, descending to the knees, and leggings leaving the legs bare above the knees. A rich mantle was thrown over the tunic, for it was cold.

By his side, similarly dressed, stood his son, the hopeful Canute, the future King of England, then only in his twelfth year, but already showing himself a true cub of the old tiger in fierceness and valour, yet not devoid of nobler and gentler virtues, as he afterwards showed.

"Welcome, Anlaf," cried Sweyn, as he saw the party arrive; "welcome, hast thou enjoyed thy holiday in Mercia?"

"Bravely, my king, the ravens have tasted flesh."

"No need to tell me that; thy revenge, then, is accomplished. Hast thou found thy son?"

"He is with me, my lord, but their saints must have warned the English of our approach. We burnt the place but the people were not in it. Their cries would have been music in our ears."

"Perhaps St. Brice told them you were coming; the English have a veneration for him," said Sweyn, bitterly.

They both laughed a bitter laugh, for both had suffered by the massacre in the persons of kinsfolks.

"But is this young springal thy long-lost son? he is like thee, even as a tame falcon is like, and yet unlike, the free wild bird."

"He is my son;" and Anlaf introduced Alfgar.

The youth made his salutations, not ungracefully, yet with an air of reserve which the king noticed.

"I thought St. Brice had got him long ago, and feared thou wert on a wild-goose chase."

"It is a long tale to tell now, my liege."

"Have they Christianised him?" said the king, with a sly look.

"He will soon lose that," replied Anlaf.

"Yes," said the king; "we know a way of curing the folly," when, even as he spoke, a spasm, as of mental agony, passed over him, and he shook like an aspen, but it was gone in a minute.

Was it the fate of his father which was thus avenged?

Every one looked aside and pretended not to notice the fact, and Anlaf, having made his homage, retired, leading Alfgar.

"You see, my son," commenced the old warrior, as he led his recovered boy to his own quarters, "how useless it would be for you to struggle against the tide, such a tide as no swimmer could breast."

"If he could not swim, it would be easy to drown," said Alfgar, and there was such a despairing utterance in his tone, that his father was checked.

The quarters of Anlaf were in the northwestern angle of the camp; they consisted of huts hastily constructed from the material which the neighbouring woods supplied, and one or two tents, the best of which, stolen property, appertained to the chieftain.

Over a wide extent of desolated land, beautiful in its general outline, where the eye could not penetrate to details, looked the prospect. The round gently-swelling Sussex downs rose on the southern horizon, guarding the sea, while around them were once cultivated fields which the foe had reaped, while quick streams wound in between the gentle elevations, crowned with wood, and here and there the mere spread its lake-like form. The sun was now sinking behind the huge rounded forms of some chalk hills in the west, when the camp became gradually illuminated by the light of numberless fires, whereat oxen were roasted whole, and partridges and hares by the dozen, for the Danes were voracious in their appetites.

In Anlaf's quarters one huge fire blazed for all. Alfgar seemed the only silent member of the company; the warriors related their successes, and boasted of their exploits, and the bards sang their ferocious ditties, until all were tired, and the quiet moon looked down upon the sleeping camp.

O the contrast—the calm passionless aspect of the heaven and the human pandemonium beneath.



CHAPTER VIII. FATHER CUTHBERT'S DIARY.

St. Matthew's Day, 1006.—

It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write the events of the last few days. They have been so calamitous, so unexpected. We have heard of such things afar off, we had prayed for our brethren in Wessex, exposed to similar calamities, and now they have fallen upon us personally. May God, who alone is sufficient for these things, give us strength to bear all for His name's sake.

It was a fortnight ago, and our harvest was all gathered in. God had blessed our increase, and our garners were full with all manner of store; women and children had mainly been the reapers, but the Lady Hilda herself had been present amongst them, and so had her daughter, my niece, Ethelgiva, even sometimes labouring with their own hands.

Alfgar and Bertric had worked like common serfs, and did themselves honour thereby, for true nobility lies not in being idle, save in the field of battle, as the bloody Northmen vainly think.

Well, the work was over, and we had a mass of thanksgiving, after which Bertric and Alfgar went hunting in the forest. In the evening there was a harvest home; it was of course a strange one without the men, who were afar off, fighting for their country, but we tried to be thankful for mercies vouchsafed, and I and Father Adhelm were there to bless the food.

We found a large party assembled—as many, indeed, as the hall would contain. My sister, the Lady Hilda, was somewhat uneasy, because Alfgar and Bertric were not yet back, but still not much alarmed, for what harm could befall such lads in the woods? So I blessed the food and the feast commenced.

Eating and drinking were over, and the old gleeman, striking his harp, was beginning a song of harvest home, when in rushed the two young theows who had gone out with Alfgar and Bertric, with the startling intelligence that there was a band of Northmen lurking in the woods, who had seized their young lords, and were, they thought, bent on attacking the place.

Words of mine cannot paint the terror and dismay the tidings caused; the scene of distress and fear is yet before my eyes as I write. One woman rose superior to fear—the Lady Hilda; aided by her, I stilled the tumult, and we took hasty counsel together.

Nothing could be done for the poor lads, and the preservation of the lives of the whole population depended upon our promptitude. It was wonderful to see how the mother stifled her agony in her own breast, while she strove to remember that, in the absence of her lord, she was in charge of the safety of all her people, and the mother of all. I had already interrogated the two churls; their story was but too evidently true; and I learned that they had discovered the footmarks of the Northmen in crossing a ford that afterwards, while returning hastily home, they stumbled upon them, and Alfgar and Bertric were taken. The party were evidently awaiting the approach of night, and were doubtless bent on attacking the castle and village.

Fifty men! and how could we resist them? The poor old gleemen expressed their readiness to fight for the old hall, and so did even the boys; but these accursed pagans are the very spawn of the evil one, and fight like fiends, whom they equal in skill, so that I saw at once there was no chance in resistance.

But there was safety in retreat and flight, and under our circumstances no dishonour in so seeking it. So I saw the path clear at once, and not a minute too soon.

In the depths of the forest, about ten miles from Aescendune, in the opposite direction to that in which the enemy lay, is a solitary valley, surrounded by such morasses and quagmires that only those who know the paths could safely journey thither. But the valley is fertile, and my father years ago built a substantial farm house with outbuildings there, which has ever since been occupied by our chief forester.

Thither I saw at once the whole party must retreat, alike from the hall, the priory, and the village. In such a way only could they hope to escape the wretches to whom bloodshed and cruelty are pastimes.

Yet I was deeply puzzled to understand what motive could have brought a war party so far, and why they had passed so many flourishing homes to come to poor secluded Aescendune. Surely, thought I, there is some great mystery hidden in this, which time may perhaps show.

In a brief space of time, shorter, indeed, than under other circumstances we should have conceived possible, everything was prepared; horses were loaded with provisions and all things necessary for immediate use. Old men and children were also mounted, who could not otherwise travel, and we started. It was indeed painful to part from home, and to leave all we had to the mercy of the Danes, but "skin for skin, all that a man hath will he give for his life."

So soon as I saw the party safely away from the town, I left them under the guidance of some ancient foresters, who knew every woodland path, and hastened to my brethren, who had been duly forewarned, and were awaiting my arrival. I found them prepared for immediate departure. We had a large flat-bottomed boat on the river which washes the monastery garden; they had placed all the sacred vessels and the treasure of the priory therein, and had sent the novices and lay brethren to seek their safety with the rest in the woods, only the brethren, properly so called, remaining.

And now, ready for immediate flight, we went forth with calm composure, which God sent us. Then, upon the brink of the stream, we stopped and listened. No sound broke the dread silence of the night, and we stood in perfect quiet for some minutes.

At last we heard the sound of muffled footsteps, as of those who sneak about on the devil's work, approaching the priory, and we pushed the boat into the stream. The moon had not yet arisen; it was quite dark. It was the one boat near.

We knew well what they were doing—surrounding the priory to prevent any chance of escape, supposing, of course, that their victims would be within. This accomplished, they knocked loudly at the doors, and receiving no answer, raised their fierce battle cry, and looked, happily in vain, for the pallid faces they expected to see at windows or loopholes. Then they proceeded to break the doors down with their battle-axes. A similar din, beginning a moment before, told us that the hall and the priory were simultaneously attacked.

We had heard enough. We let the boat drop down the stream till we reached a small island, where we waited to see the end, praising the Lord who had not delivered us over for a prey unto their teeth.

While we waited in suspense, we saw a fierce light flash forth from the hall, and perceived that, having plundered it of all that was portable, they had fired it in many places at once; and while we looked, we saw our own once happy home share the same fate, and emulate the hall in sending forth its volume of ruddy flame towards the skies.

This we had waited for, and we held council, and decided that, having no home, the brethren should depart with the sacred vessels and treasure to the mother house at Abingdon, while I remained, as also Father Adhelm, to minister to our afflicted flock in the woods as best we might.

Alas for our poor priory! the foundation of Offa and Ella, once the light of the neighbourhood! but now our candlestick is removed out of its place.

Our minds being made up as to the course to be pursued, we rowed quietly down the stream, fearing pursuit.

Down the stream about two hours' journey an old Roman road, leading southward, crossed the river, where a bridge had once existed, long since swept away by time, but there was a tolerable ford quite safe, save in winter floods.

Hard by stood a hostelry, and thither we journeyed in our heavily-laden bark.

The light of the conflagration grew dimmer as we rowed down the stream, but it still lighted up the heavens with an angry glare. It was yet deep night when we drew near the inn, and we lay awhile on our oars, to listen for signs of pursuit; but there was nought to disturb the dead silence of the night, so we proceeded.

All the household were buried in sleep when we knocked at the doors—a proof that they had not observed the redness in the skies, or little sleep, I trow, would they have taken.

We were so exhausted with the fatigues and excitement of the enemy, that we hailed this lonely habitation as a little Zoar. It showed how safe people were feeling in Mercia, that we could not wake the good people for a long time, and we were getting impatient, for they seemed like the seven holy sleepers of Ephesus, awaiting the cessation of persecution. I wish we could all sleep like those Ephesians, and awake in better days.

But their dogs were awake, and saluted us with a vociferous barking, and would not allow us to land until they were driven away by the oars which our theows used with much effect upon their hides.

At last a window was thrown open above.

"Who are you who travel at this time of night?" said a voice, which tried to be firm.

"The poor brethren of St. Benedict from Aescendune."

"Now the saints help thy lying tongue," thus irreverently he spoke, "do holy men travel like robbers in dead of night?"

"Look, my brother, over the tree tops, and you may learn the cause of our wanderings; dost thou not even yet see the angry glare in the heavens? It is from Aescendune; the Danes have burned it."

"Good lack, poor Aescendune! and the people?"

"Are all safe, we trust, in body."

"God be praised!" and the host hurried down and admitted us.

His wife hasted to light a good fire, and to prepare us a breakfast; in short, we had fallen amongst the faithful, and we met great hospitality, for which may God repay the worthy host, Goodman Wiglaf.

We were so fatigued in mind and body that we no sooner lay down than we fell asleep, and slept until the sun was high in the heavens.

Wiglaf watched the river jealously to see that no foe pursued; but, as we afterwards learned, they had other things to think of.

The road which ran across the river at this spot continued southward into Wessex, and, so far as we could learn, was free from danger, so I determined to send my brethren to Abingdon by easy stages along its course, while I turned back with Father Adhelm, to share the misfortunes of my kindred and lay brethren in the woods. So we embraced each other and parted; and we two watched, with loving hearts, until the glades of the forest hid our brethren, dear to us in the Lord, from our sight, dimmed as were our eyes with tears. Then we plucked up our courage, and turned our thoughts to those others, dear and near to us, who had taken to the woods, where it was again our duty to seek them.

Wiglaf rowed us back in a light skiff up the stream, not without much protest, for he feared the Danes would surely catch us, and at every bend of the stream he crept round, as if he expected to see a fleet of boats sweep towards us, while he kept in the middle, as if dreading an arrow from every bush. At length we reached the immediate neighbourhood, over which the smoke still hung like a black pall. Here Father Adhelm and I landed, and, giving Wiglaf our blessing, bade him depart in peace, which the good soul flatly refused to do until assured of our safety.

So, hiding the boat behind some bushes, we crept forward together, till, getting through the underwood, we came to the edge of the covert.

Before us lay the fated village, one mass of deformed and blackened ruins, from which the dark smoke ceaselessly arose, and made the air painful to breathe.

But there was no sign of life; no living thing seemed to breathe there; the place seemed abandoned for ever. It was a dull day, dull as the gloom which was upon our spirits; the very heavens seemed to have put on funeral attire, and the chilly wind which swept over the scene seemed quite at home.

We emerged cautiously from our cover, and soon stood where, a few days before, the priory had risen, beautiful before God; it was but a huge pile of blackened timber and stone; and even more conspicuous above all other ruins, by the black smoke it still sent forth, was that which had been the hall.

While we stood and pondered, Wiglaf suddenly started.

"I hear the tramp of men," he said.

Then I listened, and distinctly heard the footfall of men and horses. We paused; it drew nearer. We were on the point of taking to the woods again, when I thought I caught the sound of the word of command in the English tongue, and the voice seemed familiar.

We advanced still cautiously amongst the ruins, until we saw fifty or sixty horsemen cross the wooden bridge which the Danes had left uninjured, and advance with horror-stricken faces.

They were my brother and his men.

I recognised Elfwyn amongst them. I rushed up to him, and our tears mingled together.

"They are safe, are safe," I cried.

"Thank God!" broke from many an overcharged heart.

"But where are they? where are they?"

"Safe at the forest farm, protected by brake and morass; and now tell me, how came you here?"

Tidings arrived at headquarters that a small party of Danes were making an incursion into Mercia, riding as rapidly as they could, and I obtained Edric Streorn's leave to pursue them, with great difficulty I can tell you, and he would only allow me then to take fifty men.

"He affected to disbelieve the intelligence, and said sarcastically that the safety of Wessex could not be neglected for Aescendune. The Northmen would never hurt a place which had so distinguished itself on St. Brice's day."

Here he sighed heavily.

"Elfwyn," I said, "my brother, we must not be ungrateful to God. Here are ruins indeed, but they cover no dead bodies; all have escaped."

"No, Cuthbert, not all."

I was silent, for I thought of Bertric.

"We have buried him, Cuthbert, in God's peace, in the place he hallowed by his blood."

I saw the tears stream down his manly cheeks. My voice grew so hoarse, somehow, that I could not ask a question.

"I will tell you all we have seen by and by, not now. I could not bear it;" and he covered his face with his hands.

"How did he die?" I stammered at last.

"Like St. Edmund."

I asked no more, but I hope the martyr will forgive me the tears I shed. I know I ought to rejoice that he has gained his crown, but I cannot yet. I shall be able some day.

"How could they find the path through the woods, Cuthbert?" asked my brother; "how did they know the fords?"

The same question had occurred to me.

Then the words of the churl Beorn, who had been taken prisoner, as the messenger had told us, came fresh to my mind.

"Elfwyn," said I, "do you remember Beorn?"

He looked earnestly at me.

"Did he not say that his captors asked particularly about Aescendune, and that the name of Anlaf was mentioned, and inquiries made concerning Alfgar?"

"He did."

"It is the curse of St. Brice's night."

"Fallen upon the innocent."

"Leave it to God," said I.

"I will try; let us go to my people."

And we arose and took the path through the woods, sorrowing for the news we must carry, and still uncertain about the fate of Alfgar.



CHAPTER IX. THE CAMP OF THE DANES.

It was the noontide heat, and two Danish warriors reclined under the shadow of an ancient beech, hard by the entrenched camp of the Danes, a few days after the arrival of Alfgar therein. Their spears lay idly on the grass, as if there were no foe to dread, and the land were their own; they seemed deeply engrossed in conversation.

"Well, Anlaf, and when is your son going to give up his Christianity?"

"You are in a great hurry, Sidroc."

"Nay, all the camp inquires."

"They must wait."

"How long?"

"I cannot tell," said Anlaf, shifting uneasily about; "he is my only son, the heir of a long line of warrior princes."

"To whom his life is a disgrace."

"Not altogether; he is brave."

"Would be, you mean, were he not a Christian."

"No, he is, or he would not dare cross my path as he does; death, with which I have often threatened him, does not seem to have much terror for him."

"Perhaps he does not know how terrible death can be made. Has he ever heard of the rista oern {vii} (spread eagle)?"

"I should not value him much if I won him by fear. I must try other modes."

"Only do not tarry; Sweyn himself inquires how long his obstinacy is to be endured."

"He must not expect that every conversion can be accomplished with as much rapidity as his own in early days."

"Better not refer to that."

"Why! he was baptized himself."

"He would slay any one who reminded him of it."

"Yes; the curse of Harold Bluetooth, they say, was not a comfortable thing to get."

"The father was a Christian in that case, and the son returned to the gods of his ancestors; in your case it is the opposite: the first might be permitted, the last never."

"You would not talk in that way if he were your own son."

"Should I not? listen; I had a son, a noble, gallant boy of fifteen—all fire and spirit—do you know how he died?"

"It was before we knew each other."

"Then I will tell you. We had been ravaging the Frankish coasts, and the lad got a wound in his shoulder; we carried him home, for he had fought like a wolf, and the leeches tried to cure him, but it was all in vain; they said he would never be fit to go to battle again. Poor Sigard! he could not bear that, and he said one day when I was trying to cheer him, 'No, father, I shall never be able to strike a good downright blow again, and I cannot live until I die a cow's death in my bed; I will die as my fathers have died before me when they could no longer fight.' I saw what he meant, but I did not like the thought, and I tried to change the subject, but he returned to it again and again, until at last he persuaded me to let him have his way. So we took one of our ships, stuffed it full with things that would burn easily, made a funereal pile on the deck, and laid him thereon in state, with a mantle fit for a king thrown over him. Then we bade him goodbye and a happy journey to Valhalla; he was as cheerful as if he were going to his bridal; we tried to appear as if we were too, but it tore my heart all the same. Then we applied the torch and cut the cable; the wind blew fair, the bark stood out to sea. She had not got half-a-mile from shore when the flames burst out from every crevice of the hold; we saw them surround the pile where he lay passive; he did not move so far as we could see, and after that all was hidden from our sight in flame and smoke."

The old warrior was silent, and, in spite of his stoicism, Anlaf thought a tear stood in his eye.

"So don't tell me I could not give up an only son," added Sidroc.

Anlaf made no reply, but only sighed—a sign of weakness he strove to repress the moment he betrayed it.

They walked back together to the camp, and there they parted. Anlaf repaired at once to his tent, and found Alfgar seated therein.

"The king wishes to know when you will be enrolled amongst his followers."

The lad looked up sadly, yet firmly; the expression of his face, whereon filial awe contended with yet higher feelings of duty, was very touching. Anlaf felt it, and in his heart respected his son, while sometimes he felt furious at his disobedience.

"Father, it is useless, you should not have brought me here, I shall live and die a Christian."

"At all events, Alfgar, you should give more attention to all we have said to you, and more respect to the defenders of the old belief in which your ancestors were all content to die. What do you suppose has become of them?"

If Alfgar had been a modern Christian, he might have said, conscientiously enough, that he believed they would be judged by their light, but no such compromise in belief was possible then.

"There is no salvation save in the Church," he said, sorrowfully enough.

"Then where are they—in hell?"

Alfgar was silent.

"What was good enough for them is good enough for me, and for that matter for you, too. I should be more comfortable there with them than with your saints and monks; at all events, I will take my chance with my forefathers, cannot you do the same?"

"They did not know all I do."

"All fudge and priestly pratings, begotten of idleness and dreams. Valhalla and Niffelheim are much more reasonable; at all events they are parts of a creed which has made its followers the masters of the world."

"This world."

"The next may take its chance, if there is one, of which I by no means feel sure. You are throwing away the certainty of pleasure and glory here for an utter uncertainty; those rewards you will gain by submission are at your feet to take up; those you will gain by a bloody death only exist in the imaginations of priests."

"'Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, but He hath revealed them to us by His Spirit,'" said Alfgar in a low voice.

His father was silent; the words struck him like a strain of weird music; but he did not yield the point, save for the time, and after a pause changed the subject.

"You have other motives than heavenly ones. You love a Christian maiden."

"How do you know that?" said Alfgar, blushing to the temples.

"I have lain near you at night, and you talk in your dreams. Now, I have yet another motive to put before you. You think you have cause to love the Aescendune people, because they saved your life. I think I have cause to hate them, because they made you a Christian. Now, if you die in your superstition, when we invade Mercia they shall suffer for it."

"They have suffered enough."

"Nay, only in buildings, which they will restore. I will pursue them with unrelenting vengeance, with the death feud, till I have destroyed the accursed race utterly."

"Father!"

"If you would save them," said Anlaf, who saw he had made an impression, "renounce your Christianity, and I will forget Aescendune."

Here he left the tent.

The days which followed were, it may be imagined, very uncomfortable ones for Alfgar; but he was not destitute of occupation. It was his father's wish that he should join the youth of the camp in athletic and warlike exercises. This he had no objection to do, and he spent nearly his whole time in practising the use of battle-axe, of bow, of spear, of sword, and shield, or in managing the war horse, for the Danes had acquired cavalry tactics on stolen horses.

Naturally quick, both of eye and hand, he learned all these things easily, and excited the admiration and envy of his companions. They became useful in time.

In this manner nearly a month passed away, when an incident occurred which claims our attention.

Strolling on the earthworks which defended the camp, near the royal quarters, Alfgar came unexpectedly upon no less a person than the king himself, in close conversation with a stranger.

There was something in the form and manner of this stranger which even in the brief moment conveyed recognition to the mind of our hero; and a second glance, which was all he dared to cast, as he withdrew from the spot, revealed to him the face of a traitor.

It was Edric Streorn.

A few hours later the chieftains were all summoned to a council in the king's tent, and when, after a short session, they came forth, the general order was given to break up the encampment, and move towards the southwest for the winter, for all the resources of the country around were exhausted.

The work was a laborious one. From the dawn of day, horses, heavily laden, left the camp, loaded with the accumulated spoil of the year. Anlaf himself was very busy, and it was with some real alarm that Alfgar asked him what would happen did the English suddenly appear.

"No fear of them, boy. We have received certain intelligence that their army is disbanded for want of provisions. They will not meet till the spring unless we rout them up."

Alfgar knew well whence the "certain intelligence" came.

Destroying and plundering, the mighty host moved on its way, crossing into Hampshire, and doing, as the chronicle says, "their old wont." Of them it might be said in the words of the prophet:

"Like Eden the land at morn they find; But they leave it a desolate waste behind."

Whenever they found a tract of country as yet unexhausted, there they settled until they had exhausted it. The wretched inhabitants, who had fled at their approach, perished with hunger, unless they had strength to crawl to the far distance, where as yet bread might be found.

It was the custom of the invaders to burn all their resting places when they left them, and to slay all captives, save such as could be held to ransom, or a few whom they detained in slavery, till they died a worse death from want and ill usage.

Thus they moved from spot to spot, until towards the middle of November they reached the coast opposite the Isle of Wight, in which unfortunate island they decided, after due consideration, to winter.

Opposite the host, across the Solent, rose the lovely and gentle hills of the "garden of England;" but between them lay the Danish fleet, in all its grandeur, calmly floating on the water. Each of the lofty ships bore the ensign of its commander; some carried at the prow the figures of lions, some of bulls, dolphins, dragons, or armed warriors, gaudily painted or even gilded; while others bore from their mast the ensign of voracious birds—the eagle, the raven—which appeared to stretch their wings as the flag expanded in the wind.

The sides of the ships were also gay with bright colours, and as the warriors embarked and hung up their bright shields, grander sight was never seen.

But chiefly Alfgar admired the ship of Sweyn, called the "Great Dragon." It was in the form of an enormous serpent; the sharp head formed the prow, with hissing tongue protruding forth, and the long tail tapered over the poop.

In this ship Anlaf himself had his place, in deference to his descent, and Alfgar accompanied him. It may easily be imagined he would sooner have been elsewhere.

Scarcely a fishing boat belonging to the English could be discerned: the Danes made a desert around them.

Eight years before, in the year 998, they had wintered on the island, and since that time had regarded it as a Danish colony. No English remained in it save in the position of slaves, and the conquerors had accumulated huge stores of spoil therein, while they drew their stores of provisions from every part of the adjacent mainland.

"Is it not a grand sight, Alfgar?" exclaimed his father. "Are you not proud of your people, the true monarchs of the sea?"

Alfgar was for the moment inclined to sympathise; but he thought of the darker side of the picture, and was silent.

There was a higher glory far than all this, and it had left a lifelong impression on his soul.



CHAPTER X. CARISBROOKE IN THE ELEVENTH CENTURY.

The fleet bore the troops of savage soldiery safely—too safely—across the waters of the Solent, to the estuary formed by the Medina, where now thousands of visitors seek health and repose, and the towers of Osborne crown the eastern eminences. A fleet may still generally be discerned in its waters, but a fleet of pleasure yachts; far different were the vessels which then sought the shelter of the lovely harbour, beautiful even then in all the adornment of nature.

There the Danes cast anchor, and the forces dispersed to their winter quarters. The king and his favourite chieftains took up their abode at Carisbrooke, situate about eight miles up the stream, but above the spot where it ceases to be navigable.

Their chosen retreat was the precincts of the old castle—old even then—for it had been once a British stronghold, commanding the route of the Phoenician tin merchants across the island, whence its name "Caer brooke," or the "fort on the stream."

The Romans in after ages saw the importance of the position, fortified it yet more strongly, and made it the chief military post of the island, which, under their protecting care, enjoyed singular peace and prosperity—civilisation flourished, arts and letters were cultivated. The beautiful coasts and inlets were crowded with villas, and invalids then, as now, sought the invigorating breezes, from all parts of the island of Britain, and even from the neighbouring province of Gaul.

The Roman power fell at last, and when the English pirates, our own ancestors, like the Danes of our story, attacked the dismembered provinces of the empire, its wealth and position on the coast made it an early object of attack—happy those who fled early. The Anglo-Saxon chronicle shall tell the story of those who remained.

"AD. 530. This year Cerdic and Cynric conquered the Isle of Wight, and slew many people at Whitgarasbyrg" (Carisbrooke).

The conquering Cerdic died four years after, and his son Cynric gave the island to his nephews, Stuf and Wihtgar. The latter died in 544, and was buried in the spot he and his had reddened with blood, within the Roman ramparts of Carisbrooke.

It is needless to say that at that early period our ancestors were heathens, and the mode of their conquest was precisely similar to that we are now describing under another heathen (with less excuse), Sweyn the son of Harold.

It was a few days after the arrival of the Danes at their quarters, and Alfgar stood on the rampart at the close of a November day; it was St. Martin's Mass, as the festival was then called. The sun was sinking with fading splendour behind the lofty downs in the west, and casting his departing beams on the river, the estuary, with the fleet, and the blue hills of Hampshire in the far distance.

Southward and westward the view was alike shut in by these lofty downs, and eastward the hills rose again, so as to enclose the valley, of which Carisbrooke formed the central feature.

The ramparts whereon he was standing were of Roman workmanship, built so solidly that they had resisted every attack of man or of time; while down below lay the ruins of a magnificent villa, once occupied by the Roman governor of the island.

Anlaf appeared and stood beside his son.

"Alfgar," he said, "the day after tomorrow is the day of St. Brice."

He paused and looked steadfastly in the face of his son.

"And the king proposes to enrol you amongst his chosen warriors on that day; he has marked the skill you have displayed in the mimic contests with spear or sword, your skill as a horseman, and he wishes to see whether in actual battle you will fulfil the promise of the parade ground."

"And yet he knows my faith."

"Alfgar," said the old man solemnly, "you must renounce it or die; no mercy will be shown to a Christian on St. Brice's day; that is why the king has chosen it. Think, my son, over all I have told you; you will decide like one who yet controls his senses, and not disgrace your aged father."

"Father, I do think of you," said the poor lad; "at least believe that. I do not grieve for myself. I feel I could easily die for my faith, but I do grieve over the pain I must cause you."

The heart of the old warrior was sensibly affected by this appeal, but not knowing the strength of Christian principle, he could not reconcile it with facts, and he walked sadly away.

But two days, and the dread choice had to be made—the crisis in the life of Alfgar, a crisis which has its parallel in the lives of many around us—approached, and he had to choose between Christ and Odin, between the death of the martyr and apostasy.

He walked to and fro upon the ramparts, after his father left him, in the growing darkness, feebly illuminated by the light of a new moon. Below him, in the central area, a huge fire burned, whereat the evening meal was preparing for the royal banquet, for Sweyn and his ferocious chieftains were about to feast together.

Escape was hopeless. Even had he not been bound by the promise given to his father, it would have been very difficult. He felt that his motions were watched. The island was full of foes, their fleet occupied the Solent. No; all that was left was to die with honour.

But to bring such disgrace upon his father and his kindred! "Blood is thicker than water," says the old proverb, and Alfgar could not, even had he wished, ignore the ties of blood; nature pleaded too strongly. But there was a counter-motive even there—the dying wishes of his mother. If his father were Danish, she was both English and Christian.

Before him the alternatives were sharply defined: Apostasy, and his ancestral honours, with all that the sword of the conqueror could give; and on the other hand, the martyr's lingering agony, but the hope of everlasting life after death.

He could picture the probable scene. The furious king, the scorn of the companions with whom he had vied, nay, whom he had excelled, in the exercises of arms, end the ignominious death, perhaps that painful punishment known as the "spread eagle." No, they could not inflict that on one so nobly born, the descendant of princes.

Alas! what might not Sweyn do in his wrath?

Was Christianity worth the sacrifice? Where were the absolute proofs of its truth? If it were of God, why did He not protect His people? The heathen Saxons had been victorious over the Christian Britons; and now that they had become Christian, the heathen Danes were victorious over them. Was this likely to happen if Christ were really God?

Again Odin and Frea, with their children, and the heroes sung by the scalds, in the war songs which he heard echoing from around the fire at that moment:

"How this one was brave, And bartered his life For joy in the fight; How that one was wise, Was true to his friends And the dread of his foes."

Valour, wisdom, fidelity, contempt of death, hatred of meanness and cowardice, qualities ever shining in the eyes of warlike youth.

This creed had sufficed for his ancestors for generations, as his father had told him. Why should he be better than they? If they trusted to the faith of Odin, might not he?

And then, if he lived, when the war was carried into Mercia, he would save his English friends, even although forced to live unknown to them.

"Oh! life is sweet," thought he, "sweet to one so young as I. I have but tasted the cup; shall I throw it down not half empty?"

He was almost conquered. He had all but turned to seek his father, when suddenly the remembrance of Bertric flashed vividly upon him.

He saw, as in a vision, the patient, brave lad enduring mortal agony for Christ, so patiently, so calmly. Had Bertric, then, died for nought? He felt as if the martyr were near him, to aid him in this moment, when his faith was in peril.

"O Bertric, Bertric!" he cried, "intercede for me, pray for me."

He fell on his knees, and did not rise until the temptation was conquered, and then he walked steadily into the great vaulted room, of Roman construction, which served as the banqueting hall, and took his usual place by his father's side.

Oh, how hollow the mirth and revelry that night! How he loathed the singing, the drunken shouting, the fierce imprecation over the wine cup—the sensuality, which now distinguished his bloodthirsty companions. The very knives he saw used for their meals had served as daggers to despatch the wounded or the helpless prisoner. The eyes, now weak with debauch, had glowed with the maniacal fury of the berserkir in the battlefield. Was this the glory of manhood? Nay, rather of wolves and bears.

Then he looked up at Sweyn, the murderer of his father, and marvelled that his hand was yet so steady—his head so clear. This apostate parricide! never would he live to kiss the hand of such a man; better die at once, while yet pure from innocent blood. This his Christianity had taught him.

"Minstrel," cried the fierce king, "sing us some stirring song of the days of old; plenty of the fire of the old Vikings in it."

A strange minstrel, a young gleeman, had been admitted that night—one whose chain and robes bespoke him of the privileged class—and he sang in a voice which thrilled all the revellers into awed silence. He sang of the battle, of the joy of conquest, and the glories of Valhalla, where deceased warriors drank mead from the skulls of vanquished foes. And then he sang of the cold and snowy Niffelheim, where in regions of eternal frost the cowardly and guilty dead mourned their weak and wasted lives. In words of terrific force he painted their agony, where Hela, of horrid countenance, reigned supreme; where the palace was Anguish, Famine the board, Delay and Vain Hope the waiters, Precipice the threshold, and Leanness the bed.

But in the innermost chamber of this awful home was the abode of Raging Despair; and in the final verse of his terrible ode the scald sang:

"Listen to the ceaseless wail, Listen to the frenzied cry Of anguish, horror, and amaze; Would ye know from whom they come, Tell me, warriors, would ye know?"

Here he paused, after throwing intense emphasis on the last words, till he had concentrated the attention of all, and the king gazed—absorbed—then he continued:

"There wave on wave of bitter woe Overwhelms the parricide."

The king started from his seat. He was about to launch his battle-axe through the air in search of the daring minstrel, when the same dread expression of unutterable agony we have before mentioned passed over his face; he trembled as an aspen, and sank, as one paralysed, into his chair, while his glaring eyes seemed to behold some horrid apparition unseen by all beside. The warriors now turned in their wrath to seek the daring or unfortunate minstrel, but he was gone.

Alfgar had seen the apostate in his moment of retributive agony, and he shuddered.

"Better death, far better," he murmured, "than a fate like this. God keep me firm to Him."

The king had by this time recovered his usual composure, but his rage and fury were the more awful that the outbreak was suppressed.

"Sit down, my warriors, disturb not the feast. What if your king has been insulted in his own banquet hall? there are hands enow to avenge him without unseemly tumult. Let us drink like the heroes in Valhalla. Meanwhile let the minstrel be sought and brought before us, and he shall make us sport in a different mode."

The "rista oern" whispered one in his ear.

The ferocious king nodded, and his eyes sparkled with the expected gratification of his fierce cruelty. Meanwhile warriors were searching all the precincts of the camp for the destined victim.

Nearly half-an-hour had passed, and the king was getting impatient, for nearly all the chieftains were getting too drunk to appreciate the spectacle he designed for them.

"Why do the men delay?" he cried; "let them bring in the minstrel."

Still he came not; and at length the searchers were forced, one after the other, to confess their failure.

"It is well," said the king; "but it was the insult of a Christian, and shall be washed out in Christian blood. Anlaf, produce thy son."

"Nay, nay, not now," cried Sidroc and others, for they saw that Sweyn was already drunk, and consideration for Anlaf made them interfere. "Not now; tomorrow, tomorrow."

"Nay, tonight, tonight."

"Drink first, then, and drown care," said Sidroc, and gave the brutal tyrant a bowl of rich mead.

He drank, drank until it was empty, then fell back and reposed with an idiotic smile superseding the ferocious expression his face had so lately worn. Meanwhile a hand was laid upon Alfgar's shoulder, and a keen bright eye met his own, as if to read his inmost thoughts.

"Come with me, or my father will disgrace himself."

It was Canute.

He led Alfgar forth into the courtyard.

"Thou dost not seem to fear death," said the boy prince.

"It would be welcome now."

"So some of our people sometimes say, but the motive is different; tell me what is the secret of this Christianity?"

Just then Sidroc and Anlaf came out from the hall and saw the two together. Sidroc seemed annoyed, and led the young prince away, while Anlaf seized the opportunity to whisper to his son:

"My son, I can do no more for thee; I see thou wilt persist in thine obstinacy. I release thee from thy promise given to me; escape if thou canst, or die in the attempt; but bring not my grey hairs to contempt on the morrow."

At this moment, Sidroc having seen Canute to the royal quarters, returned.

"Sidroc," said Anlaf, "I cannot any longer be the jailor of my unhappy and rebellious son. Let him be confined till the morrow. I shall ask leave of absence from Sweyn, and now I deliver Alfgar to your care."

"I accept the charge," said Sidroc; "follow me, Alfgar, son of Anlaf."

Alfgar followed passively. He could not help looking as if to take leave of his father; but Anlaf stood as mute and passionless as a statue. Sidroc reached a party of the guard, and bade them confine the prisoner in the dungeon beneath the ruined eastern tower.

"Listen to my last words, thou recreant boy; Sweyn will send for thee early in the morning before the assembled host; it will be the day of St. Brice; and even were he not now mad with rage, there would be no mercy for a Christian on that day. Thou must yield, or die by the severest torture, compared with which the death of thy late companion under the archers' shafts was merciful. Be warned!"



CHAPTER XI. THE GLEEMAN.

It was a low dungeon, built of that brick which we still recognise as of Roman manufacture, in the foundations of what had been the eastern tower of the ancient fortification. The old pile had been badly preserved by the Saxon conquerors, but it had been built of that solid architecture which seems almost to defy the assaults of time, and which in some cases, after fifteen centuries, preserves all its characteristics, and promises yet to preserve them, when our frailer erections lie crumbled in the dust.

The roof was semicircular, and composed of minute bricks, seeming to form one solid mass; the floor of tiling, arranged in patterns, which could still be obscurely traced by the light of the lamp left by the charity of Sidroc to the prisoner; for the dungeon was of bad reputation; lights had been seen there at unearthly hours, when the outer door was fast and no inmate existed.

There were two long narrow windows at the end, unbarred, for they were too small for the human body to pass through them; they looked upon the valley and, river beneath, for although the dungeon was below the level of the courtyard, it was above that of the neighbourhood.

The prisoner strode up and down the limited area, wrestling with self, bending the will by prayer to submit to ignominy and pain, for he knew now that his father had abandoned him, and that he had to apprehend the worst; still he did not regret the choice he had made, and he felt, as he prayed, peace and confidence descend like heavenly dew upon his soul. Mechanically he cast his eyes around the cell, and tried to trace out the pattern of the flooring, when he saw that the central figure, around which the circles and squares converged, was justice, with the scales, and the motto, "Fiat justitia." He knew the meaning of the words, for Father Cuthbert had taught him some Latin, and the conviction flashed upon him that, sooner or later, all the wrong and evil about him would be righted by the power of a judge as omnipotent as unerring. And this thought made him the more reconciled to the apparent injustice of which he was the victim, and he prayed for his father, that God would enlighten him with the true light.

"Perhaps before he dies he may yet think of me without shame."

For the shame which he unwillingly brought upon a father who was stern, yet not unkind or void of parental love, was the bitterest ingredient in the cup.

And so the hours rolled on, which brought the dreaded morn nearer and nearer; and the victim, comforted by prayer, but without hope in this world, slept, and thought no longer of the torturer's knife, or felt the cruel anticipations which would rack the waiting mind.

And while he slept he was wakened, yet but partly wakened, by a voice which seemed to belong to the borderland 'twixt sleep and waking.

"Alfgar, son of Anlaf, sleepest thou?"

"Surely I dream," thought he, and strove to sleep again.

"Alfgar, son of Anlaf, sleepest thou?"

Now he sat up, and beheld, or thought he beheld, a figure of one clothed in the attire of a minstrel, in the centre of the chamber.

"Art thou yet in the flesh like me?" he cried, repressing a shudder.

"Even so, a being of like mould, subject to pain and death."

"A prisoner, then; art doomed to die?"

"No prisoner, neither art thou, if thou willest to escape."

"Thou art the gleeman who insulted Sweyn."

"Nay, who told the brutal tyrant the truth."

"And what doest thou here?"

"I am come to deliver thee."

"But how?"

"Rise up, cast on your garments."

Hardly knowing what he did, Alfgar obeyed, and when he stood face to face with the stranger, began to lose the uneasy impression that the being who addressed him was otherwise than mortal; for he saw by the light of the lamp that the gleeman bore all the attributes of a living man.

"How came you here?"

"Because I know the secrets of the prison house—knew them before the Danes had murdered the once happy dwellers in this garden of England, which they have made a howling wilderness; hence I escaped the wrath of the furious parricide, whom the saints destroy, with ease, and laughed in security at their vain efforts to take me; but we must waste no time; it yet wants five hours to daybreak; within those five hours we must reach the opposite shore."

"But tell me, I cannot understand, why hast thou braved the wrath of Sweyn? why hast thou cared for me?"

"All in good time, follow me now, I bid thee by the memory of Aescendune."

"Aescendune! surely I dream."

"Yes, of Aescendune. I have heard that thou art thence. Now waste no more time."

More and more mystified, for he had never to his knowledge seen the speaker before, Alfgar gazed at the gleeman.

He appeared of noble air and mien, but was evidently but a young man; he was somewhat above the average height, and looked as though he could wield the sword as well as the harp. But how were they to escape?

Alfgar was not left long in doubt. The stranger took up the lamp and walked to the farthest recess of the dungeon, where, concealed amongst the rude carvings with which the builders had ornamented the wall, was a rose carved in stone. The gleeman pressed it sharply, and a hidden door sprang open, revealing a winding staircase excavated in the solid wall.

"Upwards it leads to the banqueting hall, and you can comprehend my escape this evening," said he; "but our path is now downwards, unless you would like to go up and see the drunken beasts of murderers snoring off their debauch upon the floor as they fell; oh, that it were lawful for a Christian man to cut their throats as they lie; many innocent lives would be saved thereby, which those brutes will live to destroy."

"Thou art, then, a Christian?"

The gleeman crossed himself piously.

"Why not?" said he.

"I heard you sing like a scald tonight."

"It was my part, and I acted it passing well, did I not? Sweyn would own as much; but, pardon me, I am forgetting that my daring put you in danger."

"How did you know that?"

"I heard every word; and perhaps I might even have risked more than this to save you."

Meanwhile they had descended nearly a hundred steps, and the atmosphere became singularly cold and charnel-like, when they entered a large vault, which, by the light of their torches, appeared of great extent. Its walls were covered with uncouth representations, and inscriptions in Latin.

"What place is this?"

"It had some connection, I believe, with the old idolatry, and that is all I know. This passage will guide us to daylight and liberty."

Following a short and narrow passage, they emerged upon a ruined vault, whose roof had fallen in. Climbing out with some difficulty, and disturbing in the process hundreds of bat-mice and not a few rats, they found themselves in the midst of some old ruins at the foot of the acclivity whereon the fortress was built, and below them the brook ran rapidly to join the river.

"Thanks be to God for our preservation in that den of unclean lions!" said the gleeman; "but had they known who was amongst them, he would have had scant chance of escape."

"May I not know?"

"Not yet. Come, we must waste no more time."

They walked swiftly down the brook. No sentinels were posted in this direction, nor was any lookout kept.

"The danger is yet to come," said the gleeman, in a low tone.

Shortly they reached the river, and then they found a boat hidden in the rushes, which grew tall and strong. They embarked, and Alfgar steered, by the other's direction, straight down the stream, while he rowed for full an hour with remarkable strength and dexterity, so that they drew near the coast, and the cold air from the sea blew in Alfgar's face.

Here the gleeman ceased rowing, and spoke to him in a low tone.

"Do you see those dark figures ahead?"

"I do."

"Well, they are the Danish war ships, and our hour of peril draws near. We must drop down with the tide, which is running out strongly, and I must steer. You can row, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Well, get the oars ready to pull for your life, if I give the word, but not till then. Now silence."

In perfect silence they drifted down upon the ships. Happily for them there was no moon, and although the stars were bright, there was little danger that their dark-painted bark would be seen at any distance.

One great mass after another seemed to float by them; but it was the dead hour of the night, and no sounds were heard from the sleeping crews. They kept lax watch, because they had no foe to dread. There was, alas! no English fleet.

One after another, until they had drifted into the centre of the fleet, where discovery must have been instant death. There above them rose the "Great Dragon," in all her hideous beauty, the gilded serpent reposing on the placid waves. Her people, even at that untimely hour, were engaged in revelry, and as they passed by the fugitives heard the words:

"Now the warrior's cup of joy was full, When he drank the blood of his foe, Where the slain lay thick on the gory hill, And torrents of blood from every rill reddened the river below, For Odin's hall is the Northman's heaven—"

But they heard no more, for they had drifted beyond hearing.

They had now attained the last ship, when suddenly a watchman sprang to the side.

"Boat ahoy! Whence and where?"

"From the 'Great Dragon'—a poor gleeman and his attendant to his home on the shore."

"Come on board then, and wake us with a song. The watch is ours, and we will make it merry."

There was no help for it; and commending courage with a significant look to his companion, the gleeman and Alfgar ascended. It was yet dark, and the language and appearance of each might pass tolerably under ordinary circumstances for the characters they had assumed.

"Now a song, and we will keep it up till daylight."

Thus pressed, the gleeman took his harp and sang an old Scandinavian song of the first sea king who invaded England, Ragnar Lodbrok.

He told how the fierce Ragnar sailed for England, how his fleet was wrecked, but still how, with the relics of his forces, he assaulted Northumbria, and was taken captive by Ella the king, who threw him into a hole filled with vipers and toads.

"Sharp the adder's tooth, but sharper Spake the sea king to his foes, Spake while savage brows grew darker, As he told the countless woes Which the bear's fierce cubs should bring To those who slew their father and their king."

Then he described the retribution, and the lingering death of Ella under the agonies of the "rista oern" so vividly, that every Danish heart was filled with emulation.

"Well sung!" shouted the Danes. "Thou dost sing a song worth hearing. Hast not taught thy son to sing likewise?"

In turn Alfgar was forced to support his assumed character. Luckily his tenacious memory retained the words of many an old song, and the warriors were well pleased.

"Why must thou go to shore? We will feed and guerdon thee well if thou wilt stay with us."

"We are aweary now, and would fain return to our comrades on the shore, but we will return by and by."

"Do so, here is thy reward;" and one of the speakers threw a gold chain round the gleeman's neck. Gold was plentiful with the robbers.

They were allowed to return to their boat; but as they did so, many a keen eye was fixed upon them. The dawn was already beginning to appear in the east, and every moment was of importance.

"Thou hast borne the test well," said the gleeman, "and hast not flinched."

"I could not in your presence."

At this moment they heard the rapid splash of a boat, manned by many rowers, behind, and a voice shouted aloud to the men on board the ship they had left:

"Hast seen a boat with a gleeman and harp bearer?"

"They have just left the ship."

"Follow; they are English spies. Sweyn will give the weight of their heads in red gold."

Instantly they heard the sound of hurried voices, the lowering of boats, the splash of numerous oars, and all nearly close behind them. They took an oar each, and pulled with all the energy of men who pull for life or death.

The light was gradually growing stronger, and their chance of escape seemed feeble, when Alfgar saw before them a dense cloud of mist rolling round the eastern promontory, and uttered a cry of joy as it enfolded them.

"The wind is east, keep it on your right cheek, and steer straight forward. I will take both oars," said the gleeman.

It was wonderful with what energetic force and success the gleeman pulled until they had cleared the mist, and saw that they were in the red light of dawn, in the midst of the Solent.

One half-mile behind them a solitary boat pursued. There appeared to be only five men, four rowing and one steering. Other boats there were, but wide of the mark.

"Alfgar," said the gleeman, "you will find a quiver of arrows and a long bow at the bottom of the boat behind you."

Alfgar handed them to him.

"The points are passing sharp, and the bow is in order; take your turn to row."

Alfgar obeyed; he could not do otherwise, the gleeman's tone of command was so powerful, but he feared they would loss time by the change.

"You need not hurry yourself; let them approach. They are not likely to have brought other weapons than their swords and axes."

The boat gained on them rapidly, until it was within a hundred and fifty yards.

"Keep just this distance if you can," said the gleeman, and drew an arrow suddenly to its head; it whistled through the air, and the steersman, transfixed, rose, leapt in the boat, and fell in the sea a corpse.

"Gone to seek oysters for King Sweyn's table, I suppose," said the gleeman.

Another steersman promptly took the place, but some yards were lost by the pursuers.

"Slacken, we are too far for accurate aim; and we English must not disgrace ourselves in Danish eyes."

They slackened, another arrow sped, and the foremost rower fell. Evidently the Danes had no means of reply.

"Slacken yet more;" and before the pursuers could recover their confusion, a third fell, then a fourth, before the unerring shafts. The fifth was at the fearful gleeman's mercy, but he restrained himself, now danger had vanished.

But as he did so he cried aloud:

"Dane, we give thee thy life, blood sucker though thou art. Go, and tell King Sweyn that Edmund {viii} the Etheling, son of Ethelred of England, has been his gleeman, and hopes he enjoyed the song which told the doom of parricides."



CHAPTER XII. THE MONASTERY OF ABINGDON.

One of the central lights of civilisation and Christianity in the early days of Wessex was the monastery of Abingdon. St. Birinus had fixed the centre of his missionary labours at Dorchester, only six miles distant, but the Abbey was the fruit of the heroic zeal of another evangelist, upon whom his mantle fell—St. Wilfrid. After the death of Birinus, the zeal of his successors failed to evangelise the southeastern districts of Wessex, until, at length, came Wilfrid, fervent in zeal, and, stationing himself at Selsey, near Chichester, evangelised both Sussex and Wessex, sending out missionaries like-minded with himself, even into the most inaccessible wilds.

Centwin was then king of Sussex, but various petty states were tributary to him, and ruled by viceroys. One of these viceroys was Cissa, whose dominions included Wiltshire and the greater part of Berkshire {ix}. This Cissa and his nephew, Hean, founded Abingdon. A mission was sent out from Chichester which attracted great multitudes of the Berkshire folk. Hean was present, and heard the preacher take for his text that verse of St. Matthew which declares that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. These words entered into the hearts of Hean and his sister Cilla, who was with him. They determined to go and sell all that they had and embrace a life of poverty. From their uncle, Cissa, they obtained grants of land, whereon they founded monastic homes. Cilla dedicated the convent she reared to St. Helena, the mother of Constantine, traditions of whose life in the neighbourhood had survived the Saxon Conquest.

Hean obtained the land of which Abingdon formed the central point, then generally known by the name Cloveshoo. He was tardy in his work as contrasted with his sister, and Cissa died without seeing the work for which he had given the land accomplished. Ceadwalla succeeded him (A.D. 685), and further augmented the territory. He rebelled against Centwin, and became king of Wessex; spending most of his life in warfare; it was through his conquest of the island that the "Wight" became Christian. He made a pilgrimage to Rome, where he died, after his baptism by Pope Sergius.

Ina, his successor (A.D. 688), was so angry at the long delay in building the monastery, that at first he revoked the grant of his predecessors to Hean, but becoming reconciled, gave all his energy to the work, and Cloveshoo {x}, or Abingdon, became a monastic town, and its history commences as a house of God from Ina, about A.D. 690-700.

Important benefits were thus conferred on the whole neighbourhood; agriculture flourished, learning increased, a sanctuary for the oppressed was provided, and last, though not least in Ina's eyes, a bulwark against Mercia was provided for the neighbourhood; while the poor and the afflicted found their happiness in every way promoted by the neighbourhood of the monastery.

Several times the monastery was in peril by reason of the wars between Wessex and Mercia. In A. D. 752, Cuthred of Wessex defeated Ethelbald of Mercia at Burford, hard by, and protected Abingdon from further aggressions. Twenty-five years later the decision of war was reversed. Offa, the great and fierce king of Mercia, defeated Cynewulf of Wessex, at Bensington, and spoiled the land, destroying the convent of St. Helena, founded by Cilla, and grievously robbing and oppressing Abingdon.

But the most awful calamity it ever underwent was its destruction in the first great Danish invasion, in the early days of King Alfred, when it was literally levelled with the ground, only, however, to arise in greater magnificence when the storm had passed away.

However the period of anarchy had introduced evils which required a stern reformer, and one was found in the person of the abbot Ethelwold, the friend of St. Dunstan, who, in conjunction with him and Oswald, introduced the rule of St. Benedict into Abingdon, Glastonbury, Ely, and other great houses, which, by its absolute prohibition of monastic idleness, and its wise regulations, caused the religious houses of that period to become the central points of civilisation and learning in the land.

Here, at this famous monastery, we resume Father Cuthbert's Diary.

In festo St. Edmundi.

Again I resume my diary, at the great monastic house of Abingdon, where I have rejoined my brethren. I have already told how, in company with Elfwyn, Father Adhelm and I sought the forest farm where our beloved ones had found refuge from the cruel oppressor. The joy of the women and children to whom their husbands and fathers were thus restored was very touching; all seemed willing to forget the destruction of their homes, since they had been spared to each other, and I, to whom, by my vows, such love is unknown, yet could but feel how holy a thing is family affection.

Alas, there was one family where the bitterness of death had found its way. I cannot describe the touching scene when Elfwyn told the fate of dear Bertric. Well, they will learn by and by to thank God for him and his example, for we doubt not he died a martyr, although we know not the details, and, unless Alfgar yet lives, shall perhaps never know them.

We held a long consultation upon our future movements. It was wisely decided not to rebuild Aescendune at present, for the place where they now are can be rendered very commodious, and is far more secure against a foe. We do not dare to hope that we have seen the last of our troubles; the Danes are wintering in the Wight, ready for fresh mischief next spring and summer.

We have been able to learn nothing of Alfgar; but we think that Anlaf probably yet lives, and that he has recovered his son; yet we cannot imagine how he escaped on St. Brice's night.

Well, to return. We at once set to work, and erected a church of timber, for the service of God; and I said mass in it the first Sunday after our arrival there. It may be supposed it is not a very grand church; but God looks at the living stones, and reads the heart.

We all had enough to do for the first few days; but within a week one might suppose we had been living there an age. Log huts were erected for the whole population; the old farm house, which is large and strongly built, taking the place of the hall. One must dispense with some comfort now.

My brother sent a portion of his men to rejoin the army, but feels himself justified in entering at once on his winter quarters with the remainder; in fact, since my arrival at Abingdon, the troops have all been dismissed for the winter, and the Danes have, as I said, retired to the Wight.

Then, leaving Father Adhelm in charge of the woodland settlement, I determined to visit my brethren here, where I have been received with all Christian love and hospitality by the abbot and his brethren. Three days my journey lasted. I travelled with only two attendants, serfs of our house; a poor prior burnt out from house and home.

Nov. 21st, 1006.—

This evening I heard heavy steps on the stairs, and methought their tread seemed familiar, as well it might, for no sooner had the door opened than my son Alfgar, for whom we had mourned as dead, or at least dead to us, fell upon my neck and wept.

It was a long time before either of us was composed enough to say much, but when we had a little recovered, the abbot who had brought them to my rooms introduced a tall young man in gleeman's garb, as Edmund the Etheling.

At length we all sat down to supper, but talked so much we could eat little, and I soon learned all the news Alfgar had to tell. His tale is wonderful; he has been indeed delivered from the mouth of the lion, nay, from the jaws of the fierce lion; but I must set down all things in order.

The one thing which delights me most is the way in which his faith has stood the hard hard test to which it has been put.

But my dear nephew Bertric, Saint Bertric we must assuredly call him, oh how it will lighten the grief of his parents and sister to know how gloriously he died for Christ! One could envy him his crown.

And then how delighted Ethelgiva will be to learn not only that Alfgar is alive, but to hear how true and brave he has been.

But when all these congratulations were over, and we had learned all that Alfgar had to tell, there was evidently something on the mind of the prince.

"Alfgar and I have a very important duty to perform," he said.

I waited, and he proceeded.

"There has been grievous treachery in our ranks. Edric Streorn has sold us to the Danes."

"I feared as much," said I, sadly.

"I learned it at Carisbrooke, and am now on my way to Dorchester, where my royal father has arrived, or will arrive tomorrow. I should have gone there at once, but Alfgar learned you were here, and would come. Besides, we need your help to fit us for appearing at court."

And, in truth, their habiliments were not very royal.

Well, Abingdon is a town of great resources, wherein all things meet may be found.

"We will to the tradesmen tomorrow," I said, "and fit you for the presence."

"I have yet heavier news to unfold," Edmund added, very seriously. "The Danes purpose a winter campaign in the heart of the land, hoping to take us unawares."

"Now the saints forbid!" said I.

"Even so; but they are not all with us. St. Brice is against us."

I sighed, and so did they. The very remembrance of that day is sickening.

"We have heard," said the abbot, "that the king will arrive tomorrow at Dorchester; we will send you thither in the morning. Meanwhile, my sons, you do not eat and drink as I would have you. Remember you need to sustain exhausted nature."

That was indeed true. They had travelled fast, and had fasted by the way, of necessity.

"Well, Alfgar, we will tomorrow to the king," said Edmund, after they had eaten and drunken; "he must surely listen to us now."

"He appears to love this wicked Edric," said the abbot sorrowfully.

"Far better than his own flesh and blood," replied Edmund.

"My son," said the abbot, "rest here this night in our poor house; tomorrow we will find you both horses and fitting apparel, and ye shall go meetly to the king, who is the guest of the bishop."

"I shall not be sorry, father, to see the inside of my chamber," said the young prince; for he is yet young, although so wise and valiant—not more than a year or two older than Alfgar.

The compline bell rang.

"I will go with you to thank God first for our deliverance, and to pay my vows to Him," said Edmund; "then to bed."

After compline, Edmund went from the chapel to bed. Alfgar would not retire. He came to my cell; there he talked with me for a full hour. His affection moves me greatly. He has evidently found a real friend in Prince Edmund, who has delivered him from a cruel death, and who wants to attach him permanently to his service. Meanwhile Alfgar is all haste to return to Aescendune and Ethelgiva, before any further steps are taken.

Saturday, Nov. 22d, 1006.—

After we had arrayed the Etheling and Alfgar this morning, I decided to accompany them on their road to Dorchester, for it happened that I had arranged to say mass and preach tomorrow at the little church of St. Michael at Clifton, the residence of my sister Bertha and her husband Herstan. It lies on a cliff over the Thames, on the way to the cathedral city, whence its name, "the town on the cliff."

So we started, the Etheling, Alfgar, and I, after the chapter mass at nine. We crossed the fine timber bridge over the Isis, then kept the causeway over the marshes, till, crossing an arm of the main stream, we ascended a hill and passed through the open country.

On the north the country is richly wooded. There lies the chase of Neweham, abounding in deer, with a few wolves yet lingering in its recesses, and forming sport for the ceorls.

In the neighbourhood of a great monastery the roads are always good, and waggons can travel easily and smoothly from Abingdon to Dorchester. So, being well mounted, we were only the best part of an hour in reaching Clifton.

The river here makes a sudden bend to the east, after running for some time almost due north, and at the bend the steep cliff rises whereon the little church and my brother Herstan's hall is built, with a few cottages below and around occupied by his theows.

We went first to the church and offered our devotions. From the elevated ground whereon it stands, the cathedral of Dorchester and the Synodune hills formed conspicuous objects.

Then we turned to the hall, and met a reception such as warmed the heart. When we had refreshed ourselves, I had to tell Bertha all the strange events which have recently happened at Aescendune; of the destruction of her old home, but of the well being of all her friends; yes, of all, for we know that he has won the martyr's crown.

Some natural tears she dropped; but I think she soon came to see all things in their right light, as we try to do.

Soon after our arrival, Herstan sent a messenger to Dorchester to learn at what hour the king was expected; and the answer was returned, that they expected him in time for the banquet at the episcopal palace this evening. So Edmund and Alfgar consented to pass the day quietly at Cliffton.



CHAPTER XIII. THE CITY OF DORCHESTER.

Dorchester was at this period the most important city of the Midland counties, for it was the seat of the great bishopric which extended its sway over nearly the whole of Mercia.

Here the apostle of Wessex, Birinus, had converted and baptized Cynegils, king of that country, Oswald, the saintly king of Northumbria, being present, and receiving him fresh from the regenerating waters as his adopted son. Here, the next year, Cuichelm, his brother, was baptized, and from this centre Christianity was widely diffused. The good bishop died in the year 650, and was buried amongst the people he loved, but many years later his relics were translated to Winchester. But the tale went forth that the cunning canons of Dorchester had given them another body than that of the saint, and their shrine was the object of veneration equally with the rival shrine at Winchester.

Dorchester became successively the seat of two great bishoprics—the one West Saxon, the other Mercian. The first, founded by Birinus, when Wessex extended far north of the Thames, was divided seventy years later into two sees—Winchester and Sherburne. For some years the city was without bishops, owing to its insecure position during the strife between Wessex and Mercia, but later it appears as the seat of the great Mercian bishopric, retaining its jurisdiction until after the Norman conquest, when the see was transferred to Lincoln. Therefore Dorchester long enjoyed a wide celebrity and greater influence, than the city, Oxenford, which, lying at a distance of ten miles, was destined to supersede it eventually.

The day was closing on an evening of November 1006, and the sun was sinking across the level country beyond the walls, when the people of Dorchester might have been seen crowding the roads which led from the eastern gate towards Bensington and Wallingford; the wooden bridge by which the road crossed the Tame was covered with human beings, and every eye was eagerly directed along the great high road. The huge cathedral church towered above the masses, rude in architecture, yet still impressive in its proportions, while another church, scarcely smaller in its dimensions, rose from the banks lower down the stream, below the bridge, and the wooden steeple of a third was visible above the roofs of the houses in the western part of the city.

But, as in every other city which had once been Roman, the relics of departed greatness contrasted painfully (at least we should think so) with the humbler architecture around. The majesty of the churches was indeed (as a contemporary wrote) great, but thatched roofs consorted ill with the remains of shattered column and pedestal, and with the fragmentary ruins of the grand amphitheatre, which were yet partly visible, although the stones which had been brought from Bath to build it had been employed largely in church architecture.

The light of day was rapidly fading; a light breeze brought down the remaining leaves from the trees, or whirled them about in all directions; winter was plainly about to assume the mastery of the scene, as was evident from the clothing the people wore, the thick fur and warm woollen cloaks which covered their light tunics.

At length the sound of approaching cavalry was heard, and the cry "The King! the King!" was raised, and cheers were given by the multitude. It was observable, almost at a glance, that they proceeded from the young and giddy, and that their elders refrained from joining in the cry.

About a hundred horsemen, gaily caparisoned, appeared, and in the midst, with equal numbers of his guard preceding and following, rode Ethelred the king. He was of middle stature and not uncomely, but there was a look of vacillation about his face, which would have struck even an indifferent physiognomist, while his thin lips, which he was constantly biting (when he was not biting his nails), seemed to indicate a tendency towards cruelty.

But by his side rode one, whose restless eyes seemed to wander to each individual of the crowd in turn, while power and malice seemed equally conspicuous in his glance. Little changed since we last beheld him rode the traitor, for so all but the king accounted him, Edric Streorn.

Amidst the shouts of the populace, who loved to look on the display, the Bishop Ednoth {xi} and the chief magistrates of the city received the monarch and his councillor in front of the church of Sts. Peter and Paul, and escorted him through the streets to the palace, which stood in what was then a central position, on the spot now called Bishop's Court. It was spacious, built around a quadrangular courtyard, with cloisters surrounding the lowest storey and the smooth shaven lawn, in the centre of which a granite cross was upraised. A gateway opened in the southern side and led to the inner court, and the cloisters opened from either side upon it.

On the opposite side of the quadrangle was the great hall where synods were held, and where, on state occasions, such as a royal visit, the banquet was prepared.

Here, after the king had availed himself of the bath, and his attendants had divested themselves of their travel-stained attire, the throne of the king was placed at the head of the board, and a seat for the bishop on his right hand, and for Edric on his left.

Ethelred took his place; upon his head a thin circlet of gold confined his flowing locks already becoming scant, but, as their natural colour was light, not otherwise showing signs of age: he was only in his fortieth year. His tunic was finely embroidered in colours around the neck, and was below of spotless white, secured by a belt richly gilded, whereon was a sheath for the dagger or knife, which was used for all occasions, whether in battle or in meal time, the haft being inlaid with precious stones. Over the tunic a rich purple mantle was lightly thrown, and his slippers were of dark cloth, relieved by white wool; the tunic descended to his heels.

The attire of Edric was similar in shape, but of different colour; his tunic was of green, edged with brown fur, his mantle of dark cloth, and his belt of embossed leather. There was a studied humility in it all, as if he shunned all comparison with the king.

Ednoth said grace, and the chanters responded. The canons of the cathedral, the priests of the other churches, the sheriff of the county, the reeve of the borough, the burgesses, all had their places, and the banquet began; huge joints being carried round to each individual, from which, with his dagger, he cut what he fancied and deposited it on his plate; then wine, ale, and mead were poured foaming into metal tankards, and lighter delicacies followed. There was no delay; no one cared to talk until he had satisfied his appetite.

The king, as a matter of course, opened the conversation, when the edge of desire was gone.

"Have the levies who served in the war all been disbanded, Sheriff?"

"The last returned from the garrisons in Sussex a week ago, and are all hoping for a quiet winter in the bosom of their families."

"Have they lost many of their number? Did the people of this hundred suffer greatly in the war which Sweyn forced upon us?"

"Not very many; still there has been a little mourning, and much anticipation of future evil," replied the bishop.

"That is needless," said Edric; "they may all prepare to keep their Christmas with good cheer. The Danes are sleeping, hibernating like bears in their winter caves."

"While they are so near as the Wight, who can rest in peace?" said Ednoth.

"The Wight! it must be a hundred miles from here; the Danes have never reached any spot so far from the coast as this."

"Yet there is an uneasy belief that they will attack the inland districts now that they have exhausted the districts on the coast, and that we must be prepared to suffer as our brethren have done."

"Before they leave their retreat again we shall be ready to meet them; our levies will be better trained and more numerous."

"A curse seemed upon all our exertions this last year," said Ednoth, sorrowfully. "We were defending our hearths and our homes, yet we were everywhere outmanoeuvred and beaten. It could not have been worse had we had spies and traitors in command."

The king slightly coloured, for he resented all imputations on his favourite, and was about to make a sharp reply, when a voice which made him start, replied:

"Quite right, reverend father! as you say, success was impossible while spies and traitors commanded our forces."

All looked up in amazement; two guests had entered unbidden, and the king, the bishop, and Edric recognised Prince Edmund.

"The unseemly interruption is a sufficient introduction to the company. I need not, my friends, present to you my turbulent son Edmund, or the attendant he has picked up."

"No need whatsoever, if you will first allow us to explain the reasons of our presence here. We have somewhat startling news from the enemy."

"The enemy, by my last advices, lies quiet in the Isle of Wight," said Edric.

"I will not dispute your knowledge, my lord Edric," replied the Prince, "considering the intimacy you stand on with Sweyn."

"Intimacy! I would sooner own intimacy with the Evil One."

"You might own that, too, without much exaggeration, since the good bishop will bear me witness that he is the father of lies."

"Edmund, this is unbearable," said the king.

"Pardon, my father and liege, but truth will out."

The company sat in amazement, while the hand of Edric played convulsively with the hilt of his dagger; meanwhile Edmund ate, and gave to Alfgar, ere he spake again.

"Stay, Edric," whispered the king; "thou art my Edric. I was never false to thee, nor will I be now; did I not, for thy sake, look over the death of Elfhelm of Shrewsbury, and put out the eyes of his sons? canst thou not trust me now?"

Thus strengthened, Edric remained, and uneasy whispers passed around the assembly.

At last Edmund looked up.

"When the flesh is weak through toil and fasting, speech is not eloquent, but now listen, all Englishmen true, and I will speak out."

He told his tale, how he had conceived suspicions that the Danes intended a winter descent; how he had risked his life (in the exuberance of youthful daring) to ascertain the truth; how, trusting to his knowledge of Carisbrooke, wherein he had spent many pleasant days in his boyhood, he had ventured amongst the Danes as a gleeman, in imitation of Alfred of old; how there he had assisted, unsuspected, at a meeting of the council in the great hall, and heard it decided to invade England, and finally how he had escaped. And then he continued:

"And in that council I heard that the Danes had a secret friend in the English army, who ever gave them due warning of our movements, and who caused all the miscarriage of our last campaign. Stand forth, Edric Streorn, for thou art the man, and my sword shall prove it, if need be."

"Edmund, thou ravest," cried the king; "produce thy witnesses."

"Alfgar, son of Anlaf, answer; whom didst thou espy talking with Sweyn?"

"Edric Streorn."

"How didst know him?"

"Because he threatened my life on St. Brice's night, and I had often seen him while dwelling in Mercia."

"A Dane witnessing against a free-born Englishman? Can it be endured?" cried Ethelred. "What, here, my royal guard!—here! here! your King is insulted—insulted, and by his son and his son's minions."

The guard rushed in, their weapons in their hands.

"Seize my son, the false Edmund."

"Here I am," quietly said the hero of the English army, for such he was, although not recognised as such by the government of his father. "Here I am; what Englishman will bind me?"

The men stood as if paralysed.

"Will you not obey?" shouted the weak Ethelred, and stamped in impotent anger on the floor.

But they would not—they could not touch Edmund.

Edric whispered in the king's ear.

"I was wrong," said the king; "retire, guards.

"Edmund, come with me; tell me what you have seen. I will hear you, and judge between you and my Edric—judge fairly."

"Wait till my return, Alfgar."

Alfgar waited. No one spoke to him; all the company seemed utterly bewildered, as well they might be until, after the expiration of an hour, during which time Ednoth had left the hall, and the company broke up by degrees, an officer of the court came and whispered in his ear that Edmund awaited him without the gates.

He left the table at once, and proceeded beyond the precincts of the palace, following his guide.

"Where is the prince?"

"He has had a stormy interview with his father, and has just left him, refusing to lodge in the palace, to sleep without the precincts. I am to conduct you thither."

Leaving the palace, they were passing through some thick shrubbery, when all at once two strong men sprang upon Alfgar. At the same moment his attendant turned round and assisted his foes. He struggled, but he was easily overpowered, when his captors led him away, until, passing a postern gate in the western wall of the town, they crossed an embankment, and came upon the river. There they placed him on board a small boat, and rowed rapidly down the stream.

In the space of a few minutes they ran the boat ashore in the midst of dense woods which fringed the farther bank, and there they forced him to land, and led him upwards until, deep in the woods, they came upon an old timbered house. They knocked at the door, which was speedily opened by a man of gigantic stature and ruffianly countenance, by whose side snarled a mastiff as repulsive as he.

"Here, Higbald, we have brought thee a prisoner from our lord."

The wretch looked upon Alfgar with the eyes of an ogre bent on devouring a captive, and then said:

"The chamber where blind Cuthred was slaughtered looks out on the woods behind where no one passes, and it is strong; it will be better for you to take him there."

And he drew aside to let them pass.

"Here, Wolf" said the uncouth gaoler, "smell him, and see you have to guard him."

The dog seemed to comprehend. He smelt around the prisoner, then displayed his huge fangs, and growled, as if to tell Alfgar what his fate would be if he tried to escape.