"I am well aware of that; surely you do not dream, my son, that my eyes are closed to a fact known throughout unhappy England."

"But, my father, I speak of immediate danger, which God in His great mercy enabled me to discover but last night; this very night the abbey will be attacked, and your life or liberty in danger."

"This night!" said Dunstan, in surprise; "and how have you discovered this? Do not hesitate, my son tell me all."

Thus adjured, Alfred repeated the whole story of his discovery of the concealed expedition.

"You saw the leaders closely then?" said Dunstan, when he had finished; "describe the elder one to me."

"A tall dark man, like a foreign soldier, in plain but rich apparel, a scar on the right cheek."

"Stay, my son, I know him; his name is Redwald, and he is the captain of the king's bodyguard. Now describe the other with whom he held converse."

"Father, I cannot."

"My son—" but Dunstan paused, for he saw that poor Alfred had covered his face with his hands, and he at once divined the truth, with full conviction, at the same time, of the truth and earnestness of Alfred's statement.

"My son, God can dispose and turn the hearts of all men as seemeth best to His wisdom; and I doubt not, in answer to our fervent prayers, He will turn the heart of your poor brother. Meanwhile, we ourselves will take such precautions as shall spare him the guilt of sacrilege.

"Brother Osgood, summon the prior to my presence, and cause the brethren to assemble, one and all, in the chapter house: we have need of instant deliberation."

The lay brother departed, and Dunstan, whose cheerfulness did not desert him for one moment, chatted familiarly with Father Cuthbert, or perused the parchment the good father had just presented through Alfred.

"It is a great and pleasing thing," he said, "to behold how our Order is spreading through this benighted land, and how spiritual children arise everywhere to our holy father Benedict; surely the time is near at hand when the wilderness shall blossom as the rose."

The prior, Father Guthlac, entered at this moment, and Dunstan talked apart with him for some moments with extreme earnestness, but only the last words which passed between them were audible.

"Yes, my brother, you have the words of Scripture," said Dunstan, "to support your proposal: 'When they persecute you in one city, flee ye unto another.'"

"Yet it is hard to leave a spot one has reared with such tender care."

"There was One Who left more for us; and I do not think they will destroy the place, or even attempt to destroy it: they will fill it with those 'slow bellies, those evil beasts,' the secular clergy, with their wives."

"Fitter it should be a stye for hogs." [xxi]

"Nay, they are men after all; yet there is some reason to fear that, like hogs, they wallow in the mire of sensuality; but their day will be but a short one."

"My father!"

"But a short one; it hath been foreshown me in visions of the night that the Evil One will triumph indeed, but that his triumph will be very short; and, alas a green tree which standeth in the pride of its youth and might must, ere the close of that triumph, be hewn down."

"By our hands, father?"

"God forbid! by the Hand of God, I speak but as it has been revealed to me."

It was a well-known fact that Dunstan either was subject to marvellous hallucinations, and was a monomaniac on that one point, while so wise in all other matters, or that he was the object of special revelations, and was favoured with spiritual visions, as well as temptations, which do not ordinarily fall within the observation or experience of men.

So Father Guthlac and the rest of the company listened with the greatest reverence to his declaration, as to the words of an inspired oracle.

"But let us go to our brethren; they await us," said Dunstan, speaking to the prior. "Brother Osgood, take these our guests to the refectorarius, and ask him to see that they and all their company taste our bounty at least this day; tomorrow we may have nought to offer them."

In the famous chapter of the whole house of Glastonbury which followed, and which became historical, prompt resolution was taken on Dunstan's report, which did honour to the brotherhood, as evincing both their resignation and their trust in God, Who they believed would, to use the touching phrase of the Psalmist, "turn their captivity as the rivers in the south;" so that they "who went forth weeping, bearing good seed, should come again with joy, and bring their sheaves with them."

So it was at once agreed that the whole community should break up immediately; that within the next hour all the monks should depart for the various monasteries of the Benedictine order; and that Dunstan himself, with but two companions, should take refuge across the sea, sailing from the nearest port on the Somersetshire coast.

A dozen of the brethren were to return with Father Cuthbert and Alfred to Aescendune at once, and to bear with them all the necessary powers for the accomplishment of the good thane's wishes in regard to the monastery of St. Wilfred, while Father Cuthbert was then and there admitted by Dunstan to the order of St. Benedict—the necessity of the case justifying some departure from the customary formalities.

All being completely ordered and arranged, the chapter broke up, and within an hour the monks were leaving as rapidly as boys leave school when breaking-up day comes, but not quite so joyously. They strove to attract as little attention as possible, and, in most cases, travelled in the ordinary dress of the country.

Father Cuthbert and the Benedictines who were to accompany him on his return—-so much more speedy than had been anticipated—were already prepared to start, when, to their surprise, Alfred could not be found.

Alfred was at that moment in the cell of Dunstan, with whom he had obtained, not without great trouble, another brief interview.

"God bless you, my son," said Dunstan, "and render unto you according to all you have done for His glory this day, and restore you your brother safe in body and soul!"

But it was not merely for a blessing that Alfred had sought the abbot.

"Father," he said, "if I have happily been of service to you, I ask but one favour in return; one brother has sought your life, let the other remain with you as a bodyguard."

"But your father?"

"I am satisfied that I am but speaking as he would have me speak."

"But you will become an exile."

"Gladly, if I can but serve you, father."

"But, my child, I have no means of support for you abroad; as monks we shall find hospitality in every Benedictine house, but you are only a layman."

"Then, father, I but ask you to allow me to accompany you to the coast."

"I grant it, my son, for I believe God inspires the wish. Be it as you desire, but one of your serfs must accompany you; it would not be safe to travel home alone."

So Father Cuthbert and the Benedictines started back to Aescendune without Alfred, bearing Dunstan's explanation of the matter to the half-bereaved father whose faith, they feared, would be sorely tried, and leaving Oswy to be his companion.

It was now drawing near nightfall, and the abbey was almost deserted; all the pilgrims had left with the monks, although many of them would willingly have put their trust in the arm of flesh and remained to fight for Dunstan against his temporal foes, even as he—so they piously believed—routed their spiritual enemies. In that vast abbey there were now but six persons—Dunstan, Guthlac, Alfred, the lay brother Osgood, Oswy, and a guide who knew all the bypaths of the country.

Desolate and solitary indeed seemed the huge pile of untenanted buildings as the evening breeze swept through them. The last straggler had gone; Dunstan was still in his cell arranging or destroying certain papers, the guide and lay brothers held six strong and serviceable horses in the courtyard below, near the open gate, impatient to start, and blaming secretly the dilatoriness of their great chieftain. They watched the sun as he sank lower and lower in the western sky, and thought of the woods and forests they must traverse, frequented by wolves, and sometimes by outlaws whom they dreaded far more. Still Dunstan did not appear.

Alfred and Guthlac, on a watchtower above, gazed on the plain stretched before them. Mile after mile it extended towards that forest where the enemy was now known to lurk, and they watched each road, nay, each copse and field, with jealous eye, lest it should conceal an enemy. Ofttimes the shadow of some passing cloud, as it swept over moor or mere, was taken for an armed host; ofttimes the wind, as it sighed amongst the trees and blew the dried leaves hither and thither, seemed to carry the warning "An enemy is near."

At length danger seemed to show itself plainly: just as the sun set, a dark shadow moved from a distant angle of the forest on the plain beneath, and the words "The enemy!" escaped simultaneously from Alfred and Guthlac as the setting sun seemed reflected upon spear and sword, flashing in a hundred points as they caught the reflection of the departing luminary.

Alfred, at the prior's desire, hurried to the chamber of Dunstan.

"Father," he said, "the enemy are near. They have left the forest."

"That is four miles in distance: there will be time for me to finish this letter to my brother of Abingdon."

"But, father, their horses may be fleeter than ours."

"We are under God's protection: I am sure we shall not be overtaken: be at peace, my son."

Poor Alfred felt as if his faith were very sorely tried indeed, but he strove to acquiesce.

It was now quite dark, and the ears of the would-be fugitives were strained to catch the sounds which should warn them of approaching danger.

At length they fancied they heard sounds arise from the plain before them: suppressed noises, such as must unavoidably be made by a force on its passage; and Alfred again sought the cell of Dunstan, yet dared not enter, urgent though the emergency seemed.

At this moment he was startled by a demoniacal burst of laughter, which seemed to fill the corridor in which he waited with exultant joy.

What could it be? he felt as if he had never heard such laughter before —so terrible, yet so boisterous.

A moment of dread silence, and then it began again, and filled each corridor and chamber.

At that moment Dunstan came forth, and saw the pale face of Alfred.

"It is only the devil," he said "we are not ignorant of his devices.

"O Satan! thou that wert once an angel in heaven, art thou reduced to bray like a jackass?" [xxii]

Again the exultant peal resounded.

"Be at peace," said the abbot; "thou rejoicest at my departure; I shall soon return to defy thee and thy allies."

And the laughter ceased.

"We must lose no time," he said; "the moment is at hand."

Locking each door behind him, he reached the party in the courtyard, and each person mounted in a moment; then they passed under the great archway. Oswy had remained behind one moment to lock the great gates, and then they all rode forth boldly into the darkness.

They passed rapidly in a direction at right angles to that in which their pursuers were approaching, and at the distance of a mile they halted for one moment to ascertain the cause of a great uproar which suddenly arose. It was not difficult to divine its cause: it was the heating of axes and hammers on the great outer door of the monastery.

"It will occupy them nearly an hour," said Dunstan, "and we shall be far far away before they have succeeded in effecting an entrance."

So they rode on rapidly into the night. Before them lay the Foss Way, the road was good and well known to them, the moon was shining brightly, and their spirits rose with the excitement and the exertion. Onward! Onward!

CHAPTER XII. AT HIS WORST.

The unhappy Elfric had indeed fallen from his former self before he reached the depth at which our readers have just seen him, joining with Redwald in the unhallowed enterprise so happily frustrated, if indeed it were yet frustrated, by his own brother.

But when his father had returned to Aescendune alone, Elfric felt that home ties were shattered, and that he had nothing but the royal favour to depend upon, so he yielded to the wishes of King Edwy in all points.

Immediately after his coronation, the reckless and ill-advised Edwy had married Elgiva, [xxiii] in defiance of the ban of the Church, and then had abandoned himself to the riotous society and foolish counsels of young nobles vainer than those who cost Rehoboam so large a portion of his kingdom. Amongst these Elfric was soon conspicuous and soon a leader. His spirit and physical courage far beyond his years excited their admiration, and in return they taught him all the mysteries of evil which were yet unknown to him.

Under such influences both the king and his favourite threw off all outward semblance even of religion, and only sought the means of enjoyment. Redwald ministered without reserve or restraint to all their pleasures, and under his evil influence Edwy even found occasion to rob and plunder his own grandmother, a venerable Saxon princess, in order that he might waste the ill-gotten substance in riotous living.

Yet there was a refinement in his vice: he did not care for coarse sensual indulgence to any great extent; his wickedness was that of a sensitive cultivated intellect, of a highly-wrought nervous temperament. Unscrupulous—careless of truth—contemptuous of religion—yet he had all that attraction in his person which first endeared him to Elfric, whom he really loved. Alas! his love was deadly as the breath of the upas tree to his friend and victim. When the first measures of vengeance were taken against Dunstan, with the concurrence of wicked but able ministers of state, Redwald was selected as the agent who should bribe the thanes, and begin the course of conduct which should eventually lead to the destruction of the enemy of the king. He had only waited till the temper of the times seemed turned against Dunstan (he judged it wrongly); and the king seemed secure against every foe ere he planned the expedition we have introduced to our readers.

We will now resume the thread of our narrative.

When the band of soldiers, headed by Redwald, had gained the gates of the monastery, they found them, as we have seen, firmly locked and barred.

"Blow your horns; rouse up these sleepy monks to some purpose," said Redwald. "Why, they have not a light about the place."

A loud and vigorous blast of horns was blown, while the greater part of the troop dismounted and paused impatiently for an answer from within.

"Two or three of you step forward with your axes," exclaimed Redwald.

They did so, and thundered on the gate without any success, so stoutly was it made.

"What can it mean?" said Redwald. "All is silent as the grave."

"No; there is some one laughing at us," said Elfric.

A peal of merry laughter was heard within.

Redwald was thoroughly enraged, and seizing an axe with his own hand, he set the example of applying it to the gate, but without any result save to split a few planks, while the iron framework, designed by Dunstan himself, who was clever at such arts, held as firmly as ever.

Unprovided with other means of forcing it, the besiegers had recourse to fire, and gathering fuel with some difficulty, they piled it against the gate. Shortly the woodwork caught, and the whole gate presently yielded to the action of the fire; the iron bars, loosened by the destruction of the woodwork, gave way, and the besiegers rushed into the quadrangle. Here, all was dark and silent, not a sound to be heard or a light seen.

"What can it mean? Have they fled? You all heard the laughter!"

"There it is again."

The boisterous and untimely mirth had begun just within the abbot's lodgings, and the doorway at the foot was immediately attacked. It presently yielded, and Redwald, who had obtained a good notion of the place, rushed with his chief villains to the chamber he knew to be Dunstan's; yet he began to fear failure, for the absence of all the inmates was disheartening. No, not all, for there was the loud laughter within the very chamber of the abbot.

The door was fastened securely, and while the axes were doing their destructive work upon it, the mocking laughter was again heard. Redwald had become so enraged that he mentally vowed the direst vengeance upon the untimely jester, when the door burst open and he rushed in.

"Where is he? Surely there was some one here?"

"Who could it be? We all heard the laughter."

But victim there was none; and searching all the place in vain, they had to satiate their vengeance by destroying the humble furniture of the abbot.

What to do next they knew not, and Redwald, deeply mystified, was reluctantly forced to own his discomfiture, and to prepare to pass the night in the abbey. Accordingly, his men dispersed in search of food and wine. Some found their way to the buttery; it was but poorly supplied, all the provisions in the place having been given to the poorer pilgrims by the departing monks. The cellar was not so easily emptied, and such wine as had been stored up for future use was at once appropriated.

Redwald and Elfric, having shared the common meal gloomily, were seated in the abbot's chamber—little did Elfric dream that his brother had so recently been in the same room—when one of the guards entered, bringing with him a stranger. He turned out to be a neighbouring thane, one of those bitter enemies to Dunstan whom Edwy had planted round the monastery, and he came to give information that he had seen Dunstan with five companions escaping by the Foss Way.

Redwald jumped up eagerly. "How long since?" he asked.

"About two hours, and ten miles off, I was returning home from a distant farm of mine."

"Why did you not stop them?"

"I was too weak for that; they were six to one. I heard you had been seen coming here by a cowherd, and came to warn you. If you ride fast you may catch the holy fox yet before he runs to earth; but you must be very quick."

"What pace were they riding?"

"Slowly at that moment; it was up a hill."

Redwald rushed from the room, crying, "To horse, to horse!" but found only a portion of his men awake: the others were mainly drunk and sleeping it off on the floor.

Cursing their untimely indulgence, he got about a dozen men rapidly mounted on the fleetest horses, taking care Elfric should be one, and dashed off in pursuit of the fugitives.

Dunstan and his party had ridden some four or five hours, when the moon became overcast, and low peals of distant thunder were heard. The atmosphere was so intensely hot, and the silence of nature so oppressive, that it was evident some convulsion was at hand.

"Is there any shelter near?"

"Only a ruined city [xxiv] in the wood on the left hand, but it is a dangerous place to approach after nightfall. They say evil spirits lurk there."

"They tell that story of every ruined place, be it city, temple, or house; and even if it be, we have more cause to dread evil men than evil spirits."

The guide hesitated no longer, and struck into a bypath, which penetrated the depth of the woody marsh through which the Foss Way then had its course. After a minute or two it became evident, from the footing, that they were upon the paved work of a causeway overgrown with weeds and rank herbage; huge mounds showed where fortifications had once existed, and shortly, broken pillars and ruined walls appeared at irregular intervals.

They had little time to look around them, for the storm had come rapidly up, and the glare of the lightning was incessant, while the rain poured down in absolute torrents. Before them rose a huge ruin covered with ivy and with the roof partly protecting the interior. It was so large that they were able to lead their horses within its protection and wait the cessation of the rain.

Between the flashes the sky was intensely dark, but they were almost incessant, and revealed the city of the dead in which they had found refuge. It was an ancient Welsh town, and in the latter years of the deadly struggle with the English, had been taken after a protracted resistance. Tradition had not even preserved its name, and only stated that every living soul had perished in the massacre when the outer walls were at length stormed and the town given to fire and sword. The victors, as was frequently the case, had avoided the spot, preferring to build elsewhere, and, like Silchester or Anderida, it had fallen into desolation such as befell mighty Babylon.

And now the ignorant rustic peopled its buildings with the imaginary forms of doleful creatures, and shunned the fatal precincts where once family love and social affections had flourished; where hearts, long mouldered to dust, had beaten with tender affection, where all the little circumstances which make up life—the trivial round, the common task—had gone on beneath the summer's sun or winter's storm, till the great convulsion which ended the existence of the whole community.

Dunstan noticed that his whole party crowded closely together, and when the lightning illuminated each face saw that fear had left its visible mark.

The continuous roar of thunder, the hissing of the descending rain, the wind which blew in angry gusts, prevented all conversation until nearly an hour had elapsed, when the strife began to diminish. It was a sad and mournful sight to gaze upon the remains of departed greatness when thus illuminated by the electric flash, and easily might the fancy, deceived by the transient glimpses of things, people the ruins with the shades of their departed inhabitants.

"Father," said Alfred, at length, "who were they who lived here? Do you know aught about them?"

"The men whom our ancestors subdued—the Welsh, or British—an unhappy race."

"Were they heathen?"

"At one time, but they were converted by the missions from Rome and the East, of which the earliest was that of St. Joseph of Arimathea to our own Glastonbury; he may have preached to the very people who lived here, nay, in this very basilica, which, I think, may have been converted into a church."

It was indeed the ruin of a basilica wherein they stood, but no trace survived to show whether Dunstan's conjecture was correct.

"It seems strange that God should have permitted them to fall before the sword of our heathen ancestors."

"Their own historian Gildas, who lies buried at Glastonbury, explains it. He tells us that such was the corruption of faith and of morals towards the close of their brief day, that had not the Saxon sword interposed; plague, pestilence, or famine, or some similar calamity, must have done the fatal work. God grant that we, now that in turn we have received the message of the Gospel, may be more faithful servants, or similar ruin may, at no distant period, await the Englishman also, as it did the Welshman."

He sighed deeply, and Alfred echoed the sigh in his heart; he read the abbot's thoughts.

"Do you believe," said he, after a pause, "that their spirits ever revisit the earth?"

"I know not; many wise men have thought it possible, and that they may haunt the places where they sinned, ever bearing their condemnation within them, even while they clothe themselves in semblance of the mortal flesh they once wore."

The whole party shuddered, and Father Guthlac said, deprecatingly:

"My father, let us not talk of this now. We are too weak to bear it, and the place is so awful!"

By this time the wind had made a huge rent in the black clouds overhead, and the moon came suddenly in sight, sailing tranquilly in the azure void above, and casting her beams on the ruins, as she had once cast them on the beauteous city; its basilicas, palaces, and temples yet standing.

At this moment their guide came hastily to them.

"We are in some danger, father. Horsemen, twelve of them, are galloping along the Foss Way in spite of the storm."

Dunstan left the shelter, which was no longer needed, the rain having ceased, and followed the guide to the summit of the huge mound which marked the fall of some giant bastion of early days. From that position they could see the Foss Way, now about half-a-mile distant in the bright moonlight, and Dunstan's eye at once caught twelve figures—horsemen —sweeping down it like the wind, which brought the sound of their passage faintly to the ear.

"Wait," he said, "and see whether they pass the bypath; in that case we are safe."

The whole party was now on the mound, their persons carefully concealed from the view of the horsemen, while they watched their passage with intense anxiety. The enemy reached the bypath; eleven of them passed over it, but the twelfth reined his horse suddenly, almost upon its haunches, and pointed to the ground. He had evidently seen the tracks of the fugitives upon the soft turf.

The next moment they all turned their horses into the bypath.

"Follow," said the guide; and they all rushed eagerly down the mound and mounted at once.

"Follow me closely; I think I can save you from them; only lose not a moment."

The guide led them by a wandering path amongst the ruins, where their tracks would leave the least trace, until he passed through a gap in the external fortifications on the opposite side. Then he rode rapidly along a descending path in the woods, until the sound of rushing water greeted their ears, and they arrived on the brink of a small river which was swollen by the violent rain, and which dashed along an irregular and stony bed with fearful impetuosity.

There was but one mode of crossing it: a bridge constructed of planks was thrown over, which one horseman might pass at a time. The whole party rode over in safety, although the crazy old bridge bent terribly beneath the weight of each rider.

But when all were over, the guide motioned to Alfred and Oswy to remain behind for one moment, while the monks proceeded. He threw himself from his horse, and taking the axe which he had slung behind him, commenced hacking away at the bridge. But although the bridge was old, yet it was tough; and although Alfred, and Oswy who was armed with a small battle-axe, assisted with all their might, the work seemed long.

Before it was completed, they heard the voices of their pursuers calling to each other amongst the ruins. They had evidently lost the track, and were separating to find it.

Crash went one huge plank into the raging torrent, then a second, and but one beam remained, when a horseman emerged from the trees opposite, and by the light of the moon Alfred recognised his brother.

Desperate in the excitement of the chase, Elfric leapt from his horse, and drawing his sword rushed upon the bridge.

Alfred, who felt it tremble, cried:

"Back, Elfric! Back if you value your life!" while at the same moment, true to his duty, without raising his axe or any other attempt at offence, he opposed his own body in passive resistance to Elfric's passage over the beam.

Elfric knew the voice, and drew back in utter amazement. He had already stepped from the half-severed beam, when he saw it bend, break, and roll, with Alfred, who had advanced to the middle of the bridge, into the torrent beneath, which swept both beam and man away with resistless force.

CHAPTER XIII. THE RETURN OF ALFRED.

The reader is, we trust, somewhat impatient to learn the fate of Alfred of Aescendune, whom we left in so critical a position.

The fall of the bridge was so sudden and unexpected, that he scarcely knew where he was, till he found himself sucked rapidly down stream by the raging waters, when he struck out like a man, and battled for dear life. But the only result seemed to be that he was bruised and battered against the rocks and stones, until, exhausted, he was on the point of succumbing to his fate, as the current bore him into a calm deep pool, where he sank helplessly, his strength gone. But the guide and his companion Oswy had succeeded in reaching the spot, which was inaccessible from the other side, and plunging at once into the waters, the latter succeeded in bringing the dying youth to land. Dunstan and the other members of the party were soon on the spot; the lay brother was skilled in the art of restoring suspended animation, and they soon had the happiness of beholding Alfred return to consciousness; he raised his head, and gazed about him like one in a dream, not able to realise his position.

"Where am I? What have I been doing?" he exclaimed.

"You are safe, my dear son, and in the hands of friends," replied Dunstan, "although you have had a narrow, narrow escape; we are secure for the present from our foes."

They consulted together in low tones as to their future movements, and the abbot inquired particularly of the guide concerning the fords and bridges.

"There is a ford only a mile or two away, but I expect they will find they cannot cross it."

"Is there no place of refuge near? He is unable to sit his horse."

"There is a cottage close by, kept by a cowherd, who is a good and true man."

"Then lead us to it at once," replied Dunstan.

Alfred had by this time recognised his position, and he implored Dunstan not to endanger his own safety for his sake; but the abbot paid no attention. They reached the cottage just as the day was dawning, and the east was bright with rosy light. It was such a place as the great king, after whom Alfred was named, had found refuge in when pressed by the Danes. It was poor, but neat and clean beyond the usual degree; and when the wants of their early visitors were known, and Dunstan was recognised, the utmost zeal was displayed in his cause.

All that could be done for Alfred was done at once, but he was manifestly too shaken and bruised to be able to travel; and, giving him his fatherly blessing, Dunstan was compelled by the guide to hurry on, leaving him in the care of Oswy.

They had not, however, great fear of their pursuers, for their own horses were comparatively fresh after the rest in the ruined city, and those of their foes would be necessarily fatigued, after the rapid ride along the Foss Way, and their exertions to pass the stream.

So it was not with great uneasiness, well mounted as they were, that, gaining the road, they beheld their pursuers in the distance, who, on their part, beholding their intended victims afar off, hastened to spur their horses on.

It was useless: the pursued had the advantage, and after the gallop of a mile or two, it became evident they were in no especial danger, although it must be remembered that a false step or slip, or any accident, would have been fatal.

"I should not mind racing them down the Foss to the Sea Town," [xxv] said the guide; "but if the abbot has no objection, I should prefer leaving them to pursue the road, while we take a cross-country route, which I have often travelled; it is a very good one."

"By all means," said Dunstan, "and then we may slacken this furious pace."

They were quite out of sight of their pursuers when, coming upon a track of dry stony ground, they suddenly left the road, and crossing a wild heath, put a copse between them and the enemy, who did not this time discover for miles the absence of the footprints, for the soil was very dry and hard, the storm not having passed that way, and the foe were intent upon hard riding.

So they gained a long start, and eventually reached a hill, from which they obtained their first view of the sea. It was eventide, and the western sun, sinking towards the promontories beyond the distant Exe, reddened the waters with his glowing light. Dunstan and his brethren thanked God.

"We have come to the setting sun," said they, "and at eventide have seen light; let us thank Him Who hath preserved us."

But the guide, who knew what relentless pursuers were yet behind, would allow them no rest. In another hour they reached a small fishing village on the coast, where a solitary bark was kept. The owner was just about to put out for an evening's fishing, but at the earnest request of his visitors, backed by much gold, he consented to take them over to the opposite coast.

"The weather promises to be very clear and fine," he said; "and we may sail across without any danger."

It was indeed a lovely night; they stepped on board, the anchor was loosed, the sail set, and with the wind behind, they stood rapidly out to sea. They were quite silent, each immersed in his own thoughts. At last they heard the sound of horsemen galloping on the fast-receding shore, and looking back, they saw twelve riders reach the beach, and pause, looking wistfully out to sea.

"Our soul is escaped, even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler; the snare is broken, and we are delivered," said Dunstan.

"Our help standeth in the name of the Lord, Who hath made heaven and earth," replied Father Guthlac.

Meanwhile, Alfred rapidly gained strength. Happily no bones were broken, he was only sadly bruised. The next day he expressed his earnest wish to return home, but his host would not permit him, saying he should have to answer to Dunstan some day for his guest.

The time passed monotonously enough that second day, yet not unpleasantly: there were a thousand things to observe in the woods and marshes around, full of animal life.

Early in the morning, a sweet fresh morning, the cowherd drove his cattle forth to graze, where he knew the pastures were sweetest, and Alfred would willingly have gone, too, but they told him he must rest. So he took his breakfast of hot milk and bread, with oat cakes baked on the hearth, and waited patiently till the warmth of the day tempted him out, under the care of Oswy, to watch the distant herd, to drink of the clear spring or recline under some huge spreading beech, while the breeze made sweet melodies in his ears, and lulled him pleasantly to sleep.

At midday they returned to the customary dinner, which was not of such inferior quality as one would now expect to find in such a place, contrasting strongly with the fare on the tables of the rich: then there was far more equality in the food of rich and poor, and Alfred had no cause to complain of the cowherd's table.

Then he sauntered forth again with Oswy, and strove to amuse himself with the book of nature; till just at eventide, as he was longing earnestly that he could know the fate of his fugitive friends, they heard the sound of a horse at full trot, and soon the guide appeared in sight.

Alfred rose up eagerly.

"Are they safe?" he cried.

"Yes, quite safe; they had got a mile out to sea when their pursuers got to the beach; I saw it all, hidden in a woody hill above."

"Did they try to follow?"

"They could not, there was no boat: I never saw men in such a rage."

Alfred felt as if a weight were removed from his heart, then he looked up in the face of the guide.

"Will you guide us home?" he said.

"Yes," was the reply; "the holy abbot particularly desired me to return to his son Alfred, and to take care of him on his journey home; and if you will have me as your guide, I will warrant you a safe journey to Aescendune, for we are not worth following."

"Then let us start tomorrow morning," said Alfred, longing to be once more in his old father's presence, and to cheer his mother's heart.

They returned together to the cowherd's cottage, and slept peacefully that night. Early in the morning they retook the path to the Foss Way, crossing the stream at a ford higher up. Their horses being well rested and full of spirit for the journey, they passed Glastonbury, still empty and desolate, in the middle of the day, and retraced by easy stages the whole of Alfred's previous route from home.

After a week's easy travelling, by the blessing of Providence, they reached the neighbourhood of Aescendune: it had never looked so lovely, so home-like to Alfred as then. He felt as if every spot were full of joy, and as he was recognised by person after person, by his favourite dogs as they bounded forth, and finally fell into his mother's arms at the gate of the hall, he experienced feelings which in these days, when we are all so familiar with the thought of travel, can seldom be realised.

Then he had to recount his adventures that night, after supper, to an admiring audience, who listened enraptured to his account of the holiness of Dunstan and the cruelty of his foes. But it will easily be imagined that he made no allusion to his rencontre with Elfric; and Oswy, instructed by his young master, was equally silent.

He had quite made up his mind to persevere in this course: it could do no good to tell father or mother how grievously Elfric had fallen, and how nearly he had been the involuntary instrument of his brother's death.

"God can change his heart," said Alfred to himself, "and bring him home like the prodigal son about whom Father Cuthbert talks so often."

So he prayed earnestly every day for his brother, and many a supplication on his behalf arose from the altar of St. Wilfred. Time will show whether they were lost.

CHAPTER XIV. EDWY AND ELGIVA.

Edwy, King of England, and Elgiva, his queen, gave a great feast at their royal palace in London, a month after the events recorded in our last chapter; and a numerous company had assembled to do honour to their hospitality. Yet the company was very different from that which had assembled round the same hospitable board in the days of King Edred. First, the Churchmen were conspicuous by their absence; and secondly, all the old grey-headed counsellors, who had been the pride and ornament of the reigns of Edmund and Edred, were not seen; for, after the rumour of their marriage had reached Odo, he had pronounced the sentence of the lesser excommunication upon them, severing them from the sacraments; and this was felt by the old counsellors of Edred to be a most serious stigma, yet one which they could not call undeserved: hence they deserted the court.

In their place were the young and giddy, the headstrong sons of wiser fathers, the spendthrifts, the young fops of the period, those who went in for a fast life, to use a modern phrase—who spent the night, if not the day, over the wine cup, and consumed their substance in riotous living—such were they who gathered around Edwy the Fair and the yet fairer Elgiva.

And truly king and queen more beautiful in person had never sat upon a throne; and it was difficult to look upon them and feel aught but admiration, save when one knew all their history, and then pity and sorrow might supply the place of admiration, at least with the sober minded.

Fish, flesh, and fowl; nought was wanting. The earth the air, and the water, all yielded their tribute; for was it not the anniversary of the marriage—the uncanonical marriage, alas!—of the royal pair, if marriage it had truly been?

Eels of enormous size, fine as the Roman lamprey, pike roasted with puddings in their bellies, tench and carp stewed; while the sea yielded its skate, its sturgeon, and its porpoise, which the skill of the cook had so curiously dressed with fragrant spices that it won him great renown. The very smell, said a young gourmand, was a dinner in itself; and the wild buck supplied its haunch, and the boar its head, while fowl of all kinds were handed round on spits.

The drinking was of like sumptuous character, and Rhenish wine contended with the wines of sunny France for precedence, as they were passed round in silver cups and gold-mounted horns; for glass was seldom, if ever, used for such purposes then.

The floor was strewed with the sweetest summer flowers, and exhaled an odour balmy as the breath of eastern climes, where the breeze plays with the orange blossoms. The tapestry was beautifully woven by foreign artists, and represented the loves of the gods; while there was nothing in keeping with the olden style throughout the whole apartment.

But one seat was vacant near the king's throne, and every now and then Edwy seemed to cast a wistful eye upon it, as if he would fain see its ordinary occupant there.

The gleemen rose and sang, the harpers harped, but something was wanting; they brought tears to the eyes of the fair queen by their plaintive songs of hapless lovers, which had superseded alike the war songs of Athelstane and the monkish odes of Edred.

"Where is Elfric? He promised to be back by our wedding day; why does he delay, my Edwy?" asked Elgiva.

"It is little less than treason to the queen of youth and beauty to be thus absent, my Elgiva, but remember he has been unwell, and Redwald told me that for prudential reasons they delayed his return to court."

"And your brother Edgar—"

"Is somewhere in Mercia: the churlish boy has declined our invitation to honour our feast with his presence. We do not want his serious face at the board. I am sure he would preach on the duty of fasting."

"He has but seldom been our visitor."

"No; he is afraid, perhaps, to trust his cold heart within the magic of my Elgiva's sunshine, lest the ice should be melted."

These had been asides, while all the company were listening to the gleeman; but now Edwy threw himself heart and soul into the current conversation, and all went merry as a marriage peal, until the ceremoniarius—for Edwy loved formality in some things—threw open the folding doors and announced the captain of the hus-carles, and Elfric of Aescendune.

The whole company rose to receive them, and Elfric in particular received a warm welcome; but it was at once seen that there was a marked constraint upon him: his eye was restless and uneasy, and he seemed like one carrying a load at his breast.

In truth, since that fatal night when, as he believed, he had witnessed the death of his brother, he had striven in vain to drown care and to banish remorse: the thought of his aged father deprived of both his sons —the one by death, the other by desertion—would force its way unbidden to his mind. Still, he had determined to throw aside reserve in honour of the occasion, and he made heroic efforts to appear happy and gay.

Redwald was at his ease, as usual in all company, and seemed to cause prodigious laughter as he told his adventures to the younger folk at the bottom of the board. Dark and malign as his demeanour usually was, yet he could affect a light and airy character at times.

"Redwald, my trusty champion," said Edwy, "this is the first campaign thou hast ever returned from unsuccessful. Tell us, how did Dunstan outwit you?"

"By the aid of the devil, my liege."

"Doubtless; but we had all hoped for a different result, and that thou wouldst either have left the traitor no eyes in his head, or no head on his shoulders.

"Said I not rightly, my Elgiva?"

The eyes of the fair enemy of the abbot flashed fire, and she exchanged some very significant words with her mother, Ethelgiva, who occupied the next chair.

"Come, my fairy-given [xxvi] one, you must not be too hard on Redwald, who doubtless did his best—

"How was it, Elfric?"

"The devil was certainly on Dunstan's side: he and no other could have betrayed our coming, for betrayed it was."

"How long had he left when you reached the abbey?"

"Only an hour or two; but there was a sound of mocking laughter, doubtless caused by his incantations, which kept us for some hours forcing doors and the like."

"And you could discover no cause?"

"None whatever; however, we found he had taken the Foss Way for the coast, and followed, and nearly caught him."

"What prevented you?"

Elfric turned pale as if with great mental emotion, and tried to proceed in vain.

"You are not well," said Elgiva, anxiously.

"Not quite," he said; and then, overcoming his feelings by a vigorous effort, while no one save Redwald suspected the true cause, he continued:

"There had been a great storm, and they had broken down the only bridge which existed for miles over a swollen river: we lost hours."

"And yet, as your messengers told us, you arrived in time to see him leave the coast."

"The vessel which bore him was still distinctly in sight when we stood on the sands."

"But had you no means of following?"

"None: it was a lonely fishing village with a small harbour, and his bark was a mere fishing smack, the only one of the place."

"I trust the sea has swallowed him," said the king; "but there is a rumour today that he is playing the saint in Flanders with great pomp. Well, only let him show his face in England again, and the devil may pinch my nose with his tongs if I leave him a head on his shoulders: he shall be a sacrifice to your outraged dignity, my Elgiva."

"And yours, my Edwy."

Husband and wife were quite agreed on this subject: they had never forgiven Dunstan in the least degree, and, identifying him with religion, had well-nigh abjured it altogether.

The ordinary dishes being now removed, the guests all partook lavishly of wine, and, their heads already heated, yielded entirely to the excitement of the moment. Toast after toast was drunk to the king: he was compared to Apollo for his beauty, and Elgiva to Venus, while the old northern mythology was ransacked also for appellations in honour of the youthful pair.

Adjoining, in the outer hall, the higher domestics had their music and dancing, and the king and queen came to honour the entertainment by their presence. So the happy hours wore away, and at length the company were on the eve of departure, for fatigue was making itself felt, when an ominous blowing of a horn was heard at the outer gate.

A pause, during which the company looked at each other, so strangely had the sound struck them, and yet they knew not why, save that it was an unlikely hour for such an occurrence.

There was one only who knew what the message would probably be— Redwald; and he had kept the secret purposely from the king.

The doors opened, and an usher brought in a messenger who had only been allowed a moment to change a dusty dress, ere he broke into the presence of royalty.

"Speak," said Edwy, as the messenger bowed before him, and kissed his hand.

"My lord and king—" and the messenger glanced at Elgiva.

"Let him speak, Edwy, my lord. Are we not one? What you can bear, your wife must bear also."

Thus adjured, the messenger spoke his news.

"Mercia has revolted, and proclaimed Edgar king."

"The cause alleged?"

"I know not, my lord."

"I can tell you," said Redwald; "the banishment of the holy fox, Dunstan, and very shame prevents my adding that—"

"No more," said Edwy; "I can guess the rest."

He wished to spare Elgiva.

He walked up and down the hall several times. His festive air had gone.

"And on my wedding day, too," he said. "Redwald, you knew this."

"Yes, my lord, but I wished to spare my king upon his wedding day, still I have not spared myself. The necessary steps are taken, your immediate vassals are summoned, and my own men are ready to march; we will sweep these rebels off the field."

"Elfric," said the king, "you must be my right hand in the field: you will be ready to invade your native Mercia tomorrow. Think you your own friends are firm?"

"My father, although he has disowned me, would never disown his lawful king; the duty and love he bore to your murdered father would forbid."

"Well, Redwald, have you known this many hours?"

"I heard it at the frontier town of Mercia, Reading, last night, and took all my measures immediately."

"Then, can we really depend upon Wessex?"

"I treat so indeed, my lord, else we should be in a very bad way indeed."

"Well, we must rest now. Elgiva, darling, this is a cold termination to our first anniversary, but your husband's love shall ever protect you until he be cold in death.

"Goodnight, Elfric, be ready for the morrow.

"Goodnight, Redwald, trustiest warrior who ever served grateful lord.

"Goodnight, gentlemen all."

And thus the royal party broke up, and thus ended the first anniversary of the ill-starred union.

On the morrow all was haste and confusion in the royal palace. Elgiva departed early for Winchester, which, being farther removed from the frontier, was safer than London from any sudden excursion on the part of the Mercians, and the city was also devoted to the royal family. The citizens of London were directed to provide for the defence of their city, while the royal guards, attended by the immediate vassals of the crown, prepared to march into the heart of the rebellious district.

It is too often supposed that the feudal system was of Norman importation, whereas its very foundation—the act of homage, or of "becoming your man,"—was brought by the Saxons and Angles from their German home. The lord was the protector of the vassal, but the vassal was bound to attend his feudal superior both in peace and war.

So imperative was this obligation, that a vassal who abandoned his lord in the field of battle was liable to the death of a traitor.

Therefore Edwy soon found himself at the head of a compact body of ten thousand men, all bound to stand by him to death. But there was one very disheartening circumstance, which attracted notice. No volunteers joined the little army, although a royal proclamation had promised lands from the territories of the rebels to each successful combatant in the cause of Edwy and Elgiva.

The fear of the Church hung on all, the conviction that the law of both Church and State had been broken by the young king; the universal belief in the sanctity of Dunstan, and in the true patriotism of Odo whom they called "the good;" the thoughtless misgovernment since the wiser counsellors had dispersed—all these things weakened the hearts of the followers of Edwy.

There was therefore but little enthusiasm when the inhabitants saw the soldiers of the king march out by the Watling Street, and the soldiers themselves looked dispirited.

It was early dawn on the second day from the feast that the departure took place. Cynewulf, a valiant Earl of Wessex, was the real commander; nominally, Edwy commanded in person, and Elfric rode out of London by his side. Redwald's rank would not have entitled him to the chief command.

Passing through the environs of the city, they gained the open country, and marched steadily along the causeway the Romans had so firmly laid, until they reached Verulam or St. Alban's, where they passed the night. It excited great discontent amongst the inhabitants that Edwy did not visit the shrine of the saint, the glory of their town; and his departure again took place amidst gloomy silence.

They were now about to cross the frontier and enter Mercia, then in many respects an independent state; governed, it might be, by the same monarch and Witan as Wessex, even as Scotland and England are governed by the same sovereign and Parliament, yet retaining like them its own peculiar code of laws in many respects.

And now Mercia had sternly refused to be governed any longer by the "enemy of the Church," and chose the Etheling, Edgar, to be its king.

Acting with the sanction of Odo, whom he deeply revered, the young Edgar, then only in his fifteenth year, accepted the offer, and the whole force of Mercia was gathering to support him when Edwy crossed the border.

It must not be supposed that either Cynewulf or Redwald expected to conquer the Mercians with ten thousand men. No, their design was simpler: they had learned where Edgar was residing, and that the forces around him were small. One bold stroke might secure his person, and then Edwy might make his own terms. This was the secret of the advice they both gave to the young king.

Redwald had, as we shall see, deep designs of his own to serve also, but they had been locked for years in his own breast, and no servant could seem more trusty and faithful than he did, or act with more energy in his master's cause.

The forces of Edwy, as we have related, left St. Alban's on the second morning, and travelled, horse and foot, very rapidly all that day.

Crossing the Icknield Street at Dunstable, where the remains of a huge temple, once sacred to Diana, were visible, they entered Mercia, and soon reached Towcester, a town which had been walled round by King Athelstane; here they found no force prepared to receive them, and the town opened its gates at once.

They tarried here for a day, while they sent scouts and spies in all directions, many of whom never returned. The troops were quartered freely upon the inhabitants, who were evidently very hostile; and, in return, the soldiers of Edwy insulted the women and bullied the men. Every hour some quarrel arose, and generally ended in bloodshed; the citizens being commonly the victims.

Late at night messengers arrived at the royal quarters, bringing information that Edgar was at Alcester, the ancient Alauna, beyond the Avon, and that Osric, the great Earl of Mercia, was with him collecting troops.

A council was held at once, and it was decided to leave the Watling Street and to march for the Avon by cross-country routes. They rested that night amidst the ruins of the ancient Brinavae, and here another council was held, to deliberate on their future movements, and it was decided to march westward at once, for tidings came that Edgar's forces were rapidly increasing, and prudence suggested prompt measures. Edwy was becoming very anxious.

The route for the next day was then made out and, with beating heart, Elfric learned that they purposed crossing the river not far from Aescendune.

"Elfric, my friend," said Edwy, "there will be a chance for you to visit Aescendune, and to obtain the old man's forgiveness."

He said this with a slight sneer.

"I cannot go there; I would die first."

Edwy started at the tone of deep feeling with which the words were said; he knew nothing of the rencontre of Elfric with his brother.

"Still I think that I must spend this coming night there, and I will try and act the Christian for the occasion: perhaps I may do you a good turn, while I renew my acquaintance with your people."

In his very heart Elfric wished that Edwy might never arrive there, yet he knew not what to say.

"Well," said the prince, observing his hesitation, "you may go on with Cynewulf and the main body of the army, which will cross the Avon higher up, and I will make excuse that your duties detain you. I must go—I have special reasons, I wish at least to secure the fidelity of the few —and Redwald will accompany me; we join the army on the morrow, without losing any time by the move."

And so the matter was settled.

CHAPTER XV. THE ROYAL GUEST.

It was the morning of the first of August, and the sun, dispersing the early mists, gave promise of a bright summer day.

The inhabitants of Aescendune, lord and vassals alike, were astir from the early daybreak; for that day the harvest was to be commenced, and the crops were heavier than had been known for many a year. A good harvest meant peace and prosperity in those times, a bad harvest famine, and perhaps rebellion; for if the home crop failed, commerce did not, as now, supply the deficiency.

So it was with joy and gladness that the people went forth that day to reap with their sharp sickles in their hands, while the freshness of the early morn filled each heart insensibly with energy and life. The corn fell on the upland before their sharp strokes, while behind each reaper the younger labourers gathered it into sheaves.

Old Ella stood in their midst looking on the familiar scene, while his pious heart returned many a fervent thanksgiving to the Giver of all good. Under the shade of some spreading beeches, which bordered the field, the domestics from the manor house were spreading the banquet for the reapers—mead and ale, corn puddings prepared in various modes with milk, huge joints of cold roast beef—for the hour when toil should have sharpened the appetite of the whole party.

By the side of his father stood young Alfred administering with filial affection to all his wants, as if he felt constrained to supply a double service in his own person now that Elfric was no more, or, at least, dead to home ties.

Thicker and thicker fell the wheat, and they thought surely such heavy sheaves had never fallen to their lot before.

At last the blowing of a horn summoned all the reapers to their dinner, and when Father Cuthbert had said grace, the whole party fell to—the thane at the head of them; and when the desire of eating and drinking was appeased, the labourers lay on the grass, in the cool shade, to pass away the hour of noontide heat, before resuming their toil.

"Father," said Alfred, "a horseman is coming."

"My old eyes are somewhat dim; I do not see any one approaching."

"Nor I, as yet, but I hear him; listen, he is just crossing the brook; I can hear the splashing."

"Some royal messenger, perhaps, from Edgar or from Edwy, my son. I fear such may be the case; yet I wish I could be left in peace, afar from the strife which must convulse the land, if the ill-advised brothers cannot agree to reign—the one over Mercia, the other over Wessex."

"We have repeatedly said that we should be quite neutral, father."

"And yet, my son, we offend both parties, and, I fear me, we shall be forced to defend ourselves in the end. But God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. And now that I am old I can lean more and more upon Him. He will be a father to you, my Alfred, when these hoary hairs are hidden in the grave."

It was seldom that the old thane expressed his devotion in this strain; it seemed to Alfred as if there were a foreboding of coming trial in it, and he felt as when a cloud veils the face of the sun in early spring.

The messenger now came in sight—a tall, resolute looking man, well armed and well mounted, and evidently bound for the hall. But when he saw the party beneath the trees he bent his course aside, and saluting the thane with all deference, inquired if he spoke to Ella of Aescendune.

"I am he," replied Ella. "I trust you are not the bearer of other than good tidings; but will you first refresh yourself, since it is ill talking between the full and the fasting?"

"With gladness do I accept your bounty; for I have ridden since early dawn, and rider and horse are both exhausted."

"There is corn for your horse, and food and wine for his master.

"Uhred, take charge of the steed.

"Alfred, my son, place that best joint of beef before the stranger, and those wheaten cakes.

"I drink to you, fair sir."

The messenger seemed in no hurry to open his tale until he had eaten and drunk, and it was with the greatest patience that the thane, who was one of nature's gentlemen, awaited his leisure.

At length the messenger looked up, and pushed his wooden platter aside.

"I have come to be the bearer of good tidings to you, noble thane. Edwy, your king, with a small troop of horse, his royal retinue, proposes honouring your roof with his presence, and asks bed and board of his loyal subject, Ella of Aescendune."

"The king's will is my law; and since it pleases the son of my late beloved master, King Edmund, to visit me, he shall find no lack of hospitality. But may I ask what sudden event has brought him into the heart of our country?"

"He comes to chastise rebellion. A large force of several thousand men crosses the river a few miles higher this evening, and, not to incommode you with numbers, King Edwy comes apart from his followers."

Although he foresaw grave inconvenience, and even danger, in the proposal, yet Ella could not appear churlish and inhospitable; therefore, learning from the messenger that the king might be expected before sunset, he returned home to make such preparations as should suggest themselves for the entertainment of his royal master, for so he still would have styled Edwy, deeply as he felt he had been wronged by him.

"Father," said Alfred, as he walked homeward by his side, "think you Elfric will be in his train? I wish he may be."

"Alas, my son! I fear I shall never see poor Elfric again. My mind always seems to misgive me when I think of him; and I have so strong a foreboding that he has received my last blessing, that I cannot overcome it. No, Alfred, I fear we shall not see Elfric tonight."

No more was said upon the subject; they reached the hall in good time, and startled the lady Edith by their tidings.

Instantly all was in preparation: the best casks of wine were broached, fowls and wild birds alike had cause to lament that their lives were shortened, chamberlain and cook were busy, clean rushes were brought in to adorn the floor of the hall, sweet flowers and aromatic grass for that of the royal bedchamber; and it was not till a flourish of trumpets announced the approach of the cavalcade that all was ready, and the maidens and men servants, arrayed in their best holiday attire, stood grouped without the gate to receive their king.

At last the glitter of the departing ray upon pointed lances announced the approach, and soon the whole party might be seen—a hundred horse accompanying the king's person, and one or two nobles of distinction, including Redwald, riding by his side.

When the train first reached the spot from which the castle was visible, a strange thing occurred. The king's eyes were fixed upon Redwald, and, to the royal astonishment, the whole frame of that worthy seemed shaken by a sudden emotion. His countenance became pale, his lips were compressed, and his eyes seemed to dart fire.

"What is the matter, my Redwald?" asked the king.

"Oh, nothing, my lord!" said he, resuming his wonted aspect with difficulty, but at last becoming calm as a lake when the wind has died away. "Only a sudden spasm."

"I hope you are not ill?"

"No, my lord; you need not really feel anxious concerning me.

"The hall of Aescendune appears a pleasant place for a summer residence," he added.

"I have been there before," said the king. "Spent some weeks there. Yes; I thought it a great change for the better then, after the musty odour of sanctity which reigned in the palace of my uncle the monk, but all things go by comparison. I might not relish a month there now."

"Yet it looks like a place formidable for its kind, and it might not be amiss to persuade the worthy old thane to receive a garrison there, so that if the worst came to the worst we might have a place of refuge, otherwise the Mercians would soon have possession of it."

"Ella is one of themselves."

"But the rebel Edgar may not forgive him for entertaining us!"

"He can hardly help himself. Still, the smoke of those fires, which, I trust, betokens good cheer; and the peaceful aspect of that party coming out to meet us, in the midst of whom I recognise old Ella and his son Alfred, Elwy's brother, does not look much like compulsion."

"Making the best of a bad bargain, perhaps."

"I prefer to think otherwise."

At this moment the two parties met, and Edwy at once dismounted from his courser with that bewitching and kingly grace which became "Edwy the Fair." He advanced gracefully to the old thane, and, presenting the customary mark of homage, embraced him as a son might embrace a father —"For," said he, "Elfric has taught me to revere you as a father even if Aescendune had not taught me before then. I robbed you of your son, now I offer you two sons, Elfric and myself."

The tears stood in the old man's eyes at this reception, and the mention of his dear prodigal son.

"He is well, I hope?" said he, striving to speak with such sternness and dignity as sell-respect taught in opposition to natural feeling.

"Well and happy; and I trust you will see him in a day or two, when we shall have chastised our rebels; justice, mingled with mercy, must first have its day."

"Where is he now?"

"With the main body of the army; in fact, he is my right hand. It is my fault, not his, that he is not here now; but we could not both leave, and he preferred that I should come and proffer my filial duty first, and perhaps that I should assure you of his love and duty, however appearances may have seemed against him."

Then the eye of Edwy caught Alfred. It must be remembered that Elfric had kept the secret of his brother's supposed death, even from the king.

"And of Alfred, too, I have ever been reminded by his brother; your name has seldom been long absent from our conversation."

Alfred reddened.

"I trust now," he continued, "that I may profitably renew an acquaintance suspended for three years. I am but young, only in my eighteenth year, and I have no father; let me find one in the wisest of the Mercians."

So bewitching was the grace of the fair speaker that he seemed to carry all before him. Ella began to think he must have misjudged the king. Alfred alone, who knew much more of the relations between the king and the Church than his father, still suspended his belief in these most gracious words.

Leaning upon the still powerful arm of Ella, his young agile form contrasting strongly with the powerful build of the old thane— powerful even in decay—they came in front of the hall, where the serfs and vassals all received them with joyful acclamations, and amidst the general homage the king entered the hall.

There he reverentially saluted the lady Edith.

"The mother of my friend, my brother, Elfric, is my mother also," said he.

Then he was conducted to his chamber, where the bath was provided for him, and unguents for anointing himself, after which, accepting the loan of a change of clothing more suitable than his travelling apparel, he received the visit of Ella, who came to conduct him to the banquet.

All this while his followers had been received according to their several degrees; and a board was spread, of necessity, in a barn, for the due feasting of the soldiers of Edwy and the vassals of Aescendune; while the officers and the chief tenants of the family met at the royal table in the great hall once before introduced to our readers.

It boots not to repeat an oft-told tale, to describe the banquet in all its prodigal luxury, to tell how light the casks in the cellars of Aescendune seemed afterwards, how empty the larder; suffice it to say that in due course the banquet was ended, the toasts were drunk, and, with an occasional interlude in the gleeman's song and the harper's wild music, the conversation was at its height. Wine and wassail unloosed men's tongues.

Redwald sat near the king, who had introduced him to Ella as a dear friend both to him and his son—"a very Mentor," he said, "who, since the unhappy quarrel into which my counsellors forced me—yes, forced me—with Dunstan, has done more to keep Elfric and me straight in our morals than at one time I should have thought possible for any man to do.

"Redwald, you need not blush; it is true, and your king is proud to own it."

Redwald was not exactly blushing; he had spent the interval before the banquet in looking eagerly and wistfully all round the house, and now his countenance had a cold composure, which made it seem as if he had never known emotion; still he answered fittingly to the king's humour:

"Alack, my lord, such credit is due only to the blessed saints, especially St. Wilfred, whom you first learned to love at Aescendune, as you have often told me."

"Yes," said Edwy; "you remember, Ella, how I used to steal away even from the chase, and visit his chapel at the priory which your worthy father founded. Truly, I mused upon the saint so much that I marvel he appeared not to me; I think he did once."

"Indeed!" exclaimed his auditors.

"Yes; I had been musing upon my condition as a poor orphan boy, deprived of my brave father—he was your friend, Ella!—when methought a figure in the dress of a very ancient bishop, stood beside me, yet immaterial as the breeze of evening. 'Thy prayer is heard' said he to me; 'thou hast brought many gifts to St. Wilfred; he shall send thee one, even a friend.' It was fulfilled in Elfric."

"Truly, it was marvellous," said Father Cuthbert, who listened with open mouth. "I doubt not it was our sainted patron."

Alfred said nothing; his recollections of Edwy's days at Aescendune did not embrace many hours in the chapel of St. Wilfred.

The great wonderment of Ella may be conceived: he had always mourned over Edwy as a headstrong youth, dead to religion, and now he was called upon to contemplate him in so different a light. The reader may wonder at his credulity, but if he had listened to the sweet voice of the beautiful king, had gazed into that innocent-looking face—those eyes which always seemed to meet the gaze, and never lowered themselves or betrayed their owner—he would, perhaps, have been deceived too; yet Edwy was overdoing it, and a look from Redwald warned him of the fact. He took the other line.

"Alas!" he said, "I have been very very unworthy of St. Wilfred's fond interest in me, and may have done very rash things; but some day the saint may rejoice in me again, and then he shall not find in me a rebellious son."

Further than this he was not disposed to go, for in truth he felt himself sickened by his very success in deceit, although half disposed to be proud of it at the same time. But Redwald had taken up the conversation.

"These halls of yours seem old, venerable thane; has your family long dwelt under this hospitable roof?"

"My remote ancestor fought by the side of Cynric in the victories which led to the foundation of Mercia."

"Ah! many a sad yet glorious tale and legend for the gleeman's harp, doubtless, adorns your annals."

"Not many; we have our traditions."

"For instance, is there one connected with the foundation of the priory hard by?"

"It is of recent date, my father built it."

"Strange, for generally these old places are reared up by repentant sinners, mourning over the sins they have committed, or the day of grace they have cast away; is there no tale attached to your foundation?"

"Alas! there is; but it is one whose stain is all too recent, one we cannot recount, or suffer gleeman's harp to set to music, lest we harrow the yet bleeding wound."

Redwald could not ask more; the answer was too plain and distinct, and so he was forced to repress his curiosity.

The conversation then became desultory and, finally, when the gleemen began the well known piece de resistance, the battle of Brunanburgh, Edwy yawned and Redwald looked sleepy, while the old thane actually slept in his huge armchair, and was awakened only by the cessation of the music and singing.

Even in the presence of royalty itself Ella did not suffer the company to disperse before the chaplain had said the customary compline service, after which the guard was doubled at the door, and soon the whole household was buried in sweet and peaceful sleep.

Yet, although they knew it not, they nourished the deadliest foe of their race in the bosom of the family. There was one at least who could not sleep that night who now paced his narrow chamber, now looked forth at the meadows, woods, and hills, sleeping in the summer twilight; now, unchecked, burst into the wildest excitement, and paced his chamber as a wild beast might pace the floor of his cage; now calmed down into a sarcastic smile.

"Yes!" he said in soliloquy, "and here I am at last; here in the halls which should have been his and mine, and shall be mine yet; here! and they know it not; here! and the reward of years of patient endurance is at hand; here! yes, here, in the halls of Aescendune—dreamed of, sighed after, prayed for at the shrine of such gods as promise vengeance; here, by Woden and Thor; here by Satan's help, if there be a Satan!—here! here! here!"

CHAPTER XVI. NAKED THOUGH LOCKED IN STEEL.

Early in the morning the whole household was astir, and the breakfast alone preceded the preparations for the departure of Edwy and his retinue. Redwald did not appear, and they became uneasy at his prolonged absence, until, sending to his room, they found him suffering from sudden, but severe illness; which, as the leech shortly decided, would absolutely prevent his travelling that day.

It was evident that Edwy was annoyed by this, but it was not until after a long conference with Redwald that he took Ella aside, and pointing out to him the exposed position of the hall, besought his permission to leave a garrison of fifty men under the command of this trusty officer, which would ensure their safety, in case of any sudden attack on the part of Edgar's troops.

"I can hardly feel that I need such protection, my royal master," replied Ella; "I dwell among my own people, and am perhaps safer when quite unprotected."

"In that case, may I press my own poor claims?" replied the king. "In case of the worst, I should have Aescendune to fall back upon, a retreat secured by chosen men behind me, where one might halt and turn to bay; again, Redwald's sudden illness necessitates my leaving him to your hospitality."

Thus pressed on every side, Ella felt he could but yield to a request which the speaker had not only the power but the right, as his feudal superior, to enforce; for Ella was not prepared to throw off his allegiance, as most of his neighbours had done, and to make common cause with Edgar. Again, the conversation of the previous night had given him more confidence in Edwy, and more hope of seeing Elfric again, like the returning prodigal, than he had previously had.

Edwy saw this, and continued:

"And it is but a few days hence, ere I propose to return with Elfric— whom I could indeed put in command of such forces as are necessary to secure you against our mutual foes, when I return southward. Redwald and his troops will hold the place in trust for Elfric, till he arrives."

The last lingering feeling of reluctance was now forcibly banished, and Ella consented to receive Redwald as his guest, with a picked troop of fifty men.

"They shall be the best behaved warriors you have ever seen, my own hus-carles—men who go to mass every morning, and shrift every week," added the deceitful prince; "at least," he added, as he saw the look of incredulity Ella could not suppress, "some of them do, I can't say how many."

In the course of an hour from this conversation, the royal party took its departure, reduced to half its numbers.

Edwy left amidst the regret of all, so amiable had been his manners, so winning his ways.

"I take a son's liberty," said he, as he saluted the venerable cheek of the lady Edith; "but I will bring your other son back with me in a few days."

The road leading over the hill and through the forest had swallowed up the retreating force, when Ella personally superintended the distribution of quarters to the guard of Redwald, many of whom afterwards volunteered to follow him to the harvest field, and displayed uncommon alacrity in carrying the wheat safely to its granaries, saying the rebels should never have the reaping thereof.

There was, however, a kind of gloom over the whole party through that day. The thought that deadly strife impended close at hand weighed upon the spirits of Ella, but they brightened again at the renewed hope of meeting his prodigal, and he now hoped repentant, son in peace.

Meanwhile, very different scenes were on the point of being enacted only twice ten miles from the spot.

The main body of the army left its quarters on the right bank of the Avon, at the same hour in which Edwy left Aescendune to join them on their march and they proceeded in safety all through the morning. At midday they lay down to feed and to rest, and while thus resigning themselves to repose, with the guards posted carefully around, the sound of cavalry was heard in the distance, and shortly the royal party appeared. Elfric was alert to receive them, but could not conceal his surprise when he saw their diminished numbers, and perceived the absence of Redwald.

Edwy saw his look of embarrassment, and hastened to reply to the question it conveyed.

"They are left at Aescendune, fifty under the command of Redwald, to fortify the house until we return. You must go home this time, and you need not fear, for I have been a very saint at Aescendune, and they are expecting Dunstan will speedily return and canonise me. Elfric, I have used my sanctity for your advantage, since I have represented you as sharing it at least in some degree."

"I fear me, my father is too wise to be so easily deceived."

"Nothing of the kind; he really seemed to believe in it; at all events, I have promised you shall return with me."

"Did they really seem to wish to see me?"

"They did really, especially your brother Alfred."

Elfric started as if an arrow had struck him.

"Alfred. Alfred!" he said.

"Yes, why not Alfred?"

"And you saw him alive and well?"

"To be sure, why not? Did you think he was dead."

Elfric became confused, and muttered some incoherent answer, but he rejoiced in his very heart; he felt as if a mountain were removed from him, and a sweet longing for home, such as he had not felt since a certain Good Friday, sprang up in his mind, so strongly that he would have gone then and there, had circumstances permitted.

Alas, poor boy! his wish was not thus easily to be gratified: he had sinned very deeply—his penance had yet to be accomplished; well has the poet written:

"Facilis descensus Averno . . . . Sed retrograre gradum, superasque evadere ad auras, Hoc opus—hic labor est." [xxvii]

The midday halt concluded, the troops resumed their march for Alcester, where they hoped to arrive about nightfall, and to surprise Edgar and his few followers. All that afternoon they proceeded through a dense woodland country; and the evening was setting in upon them, when suddenly the scouts in front came galloping back, and gave the startling information that entrenchments were thrown up across their path, and that a large force was evidently entrenched behind.

At first Edwy could scarcely believe the report; but Cynewulf, the experienced commander upon whom, as we have said, the real command of the force devolved, rode forward, and soon returned, having previously ordered a general halt, and that entrenchments should be thrown up for their own protection during the night.

"Ealdorman," said Edwy, impatiently, "why throw up entrenchments? can we not carry theirs by storm? we are all ready, are we not, for a valiant charge?"

"Nay, my lord, we are but ill prepared," was the reply, "for such desperate measures. I am not certain they do not outnumber us; even so, we probably excel them in discipline and skill, and have every chance of victory tomorrow, which we should lose by fighting in the dark."

So Edwy, who did not lack personal courage, and would gladly have ended the short raid then and there, was forced to be governed by wiser heads, and accordingly the bivouacs were made, the fires lighted, and the royal tent pitched upon the slope of a gentle valley, which descended to a brook in the bottom, where the ground rose similarly on the other side, and was crowned by the hostile entrenchment, behind which rose the smoke of the enemy's fires. The heads of numerous soldiers, seen over the mound, showed how well they were prepared.

The entrenchment was dug, the mound thrown up, the sentinels posted, and all in so short a space of time that to the uninitiated in the art of war, it would have seemed little short of miraculous; but the discipline of the Danes, who owed their success generally to the skill with which they fortified their camps, had been partially inherited by their adversaries, and the hus-carles were not even all English: there were many Danes amongst them.

The suppers were soon cooked and eaten, the wine circulated freely, and patriotic songs began to be heard: but there was one who seemed to have no heart for them—Elfric. At the huge fire, which blazed near the royal tent, Edwy sat as master of the feast, and he was in a state of boisterous merriment. But all Elfric's efforts could not hide the depression of his spirits, and Edwy, who loved him sincerely—for the reader has seen that he was quite capable of love—tried to rouse him from it, anxious that no one should suspect the courage of his favourite.

Once or twice Elfric seemed to make great efforts to overcome this feeling of depression, and partially succeeded in veiling it from all but the observant young king.

At last the feast was over.

"My friends," said the king, "we must be stirring early in the morning, so we will now disperse for the night."

They drank a parting cup, then separated, while the king took Elfric's arm and led him aside.

"Elfric," said he, "did I not know my friend and most faithful follower, I should suspect that he feared the morrow's conflict."

"I cannot help it," said Elfric; "perhaps I do fear it, yet, had I but my father's forgiveness, could I but see him once more, I could laugh at the danger. It is not pain or death I fear, but I long to be where you have been, I would I had gone with you now."

"So do I."

"And now I have my forebodings that I shall never hear my father's forgiveness; and, Edwy, if I die without it, I believe my spirit cannot rest; I shall haunt the spot till the day of doom."

"This is all moonshine, Elfric. You have not been such a bad fellow after all; if you go wrong, what will happen to the greater part of those amongst us who may die tomorrow? When you once get into the fight, and your blood gets warm, you will be all right; it is only the first battle that gives one all these fancies."

"No; it is not that. I am of a race of warriors, and I do not suppose one of that race ever felt like this in his first battle. I have often looked forward to mine with joy, but now my mind is full of gloomy forebodings: I feel as if some terrible danger, not that of the fight, were hanging over me and mine, and as if I should never meet those I did love once, either in this world or the next."

"The next! all we know about that comes from the priestly pratings. I think, of the two heavens, Valhalla,[xxviii] with its hunting or fighting by day, its feasting by night, would suit me best. I don't know why we should think ourselves wiser than our ancestors; they were most likely right about the matter, if there be another world at all."

"I cannot disbelieve, if you can," replied poor Elfric, "I have tried to, but I can't. Well, I daresay I shall know all about it by this time tomorrow."

"Pshaw! let tomorrow take care of itself; 'tis our first fight, Elfric, and we will have no cowardly forebodings; we shall live to laugh at them all. What shall we do with Edgar, if we get him tomorrow? I suppose one must not shed a brother's blood, even if he be a rebel?"

"Certainly not; no, no."

"Perhaps it will be shed for me, and a lucky thrust with sword or lance may end all our trouble, and leave me sole king; but won't the holy fox Dunstan grieve if his pet, his favourite, gets hurt? Come, cheer up, Elfric, my boy; dismiss dull care, and be yourself again!"

Elfric tried very hard to do so, and again partly succeeded. They had extended their walk all round the limits of the camp. It was a beautiful starlit night: there was a new moon, which was just going down, and an uncertain light hung about the field which was to be the scene of the conflict. It was one of those bright nights when the very aspect of nature suggests thoughts of the Eternal and the Infinite; when the most untutored being, gazing up into the deep blue void, finds his mind struggle vainly to grasp the hidden secrets those depths conceal; when the soul seems to claim her birthright, and dreams of an existence boundless, illimitable, as the starry wastes around. Such were, perhaps, the ideas which animated the philosophers of the old heathen world when they placed their departed heroes amongst the constellations; such, perhaps, the thoughts which led the dying apostate Julian to bid his followers weep no more for a prince about to be numbered with the stars.

Thoughts of peace would those radiant orbs have spoken, under any other circumstances, to the ardent youth as he gazed upon them; but now they oppressed him with the consciousness that he was at enmity with the mighty Unknown, that he was in danger, such danger as he could not comprehend; not that which comes from the lance point or the sword blade, but danger which fills the soul with the consciousness of its existence, yet is impalpable, not having revealed itself, only its presence.

"Goodnight, Elfric," said Edwy, as they reached the camp on their return; "goodnight. I hope you will be in better spirits in the morning."

Edwy retired within the folds which concealed the entrance to his own tent. Close by was the tent appointed for Elfric, who acted as his page; and the latter entered also, and sat down on a camp stool.

His bed did not seem to invite him; he sat on the seat, his face buried in his hands; then he suddenly rose, threw himself on his knees, only for a moment, rose up again:

"I can't, I can't pray; if my fate be death, then come death and welcome the worst. There will at least be nothing hidden then, nothing behind the scenes. I will not be a coward."

The phrase was not yet written—"Conscience makes cowards of us all;" yet how true the principle then as now—true before Troy's renown had birth, true in these days of modern civilisation.

He could not sleep peacefully, although he laid himself down; his hands moved in the air, as if to drive off some unseen enemy, as if the danger whose presence was impalpable to the waking mind revealed itself in sleep.

"No, no" he muttered; "let the blow fall on me, on me, on me alone!" then he rose as if he would defend some third person from the attack of an enemy, and the word "Father" once or twice escaped his lips; yet he was only dreaming.

"Father!" again he cried, in the accents of warning, as if some imminent danger menaced the loved one.

He awoke, stared about, hardly recognising where he was.

"What can I have been dreaming about?" he cried; "what can it all mean? I thought I was at Aescendune;" and he strove vainly to recall the scenes of his dream.

The tread of the passing guard was the only sound which broke the stillness of the camp.

"I cannot sleep," said Elfric, and walked forth.

The night was waning, and in the east a red glow was creeping upwards; the stars were, however, still brilliant. Opposite, at the distance of less than a mile, the reflection of the camp fires, now low, revealed the presence of the enemy; before him the mist slowly arose in white thin smoke-like wreaths, from the grass whereon many should soon sleep their last sleep, now in unconsciousness of their fate.

"I wonder where I shall lie?" thought Elfric, as if it were certain he would fall.

He felt cooler now, as the hour drew near; he watched the red light creeping upward, and saw the light clouds above catch the glow, until the birds began their songs, the glorious orb arose to gild the coming strife, and the shrill trumpet in the camp was answered by the distant notes in the camp of the foe, like an echo afar off.

CHAPTER XVII. THE SLEEP OF PEACE.

The first day after the departure of the king from Aescendune passed rapidly away. The soldiers who had remained behind with Redwald were quiet and orderly in their demeanour, and even, in obedience to secret orders, attended the evensong at the minster church, as if moved thereto by devotion, although the curious spectator might easily discover the unaccustomed character of their service, by the difficulty with which they followed the prayers, and the uneasy impatience with which they listened to a lengthened exposition of a portion of the Anglo-Saxon version of the Gospels from Father Cuthbert.

The old thane and all his family were very anxious, it may be readily believed, for the earliest news from the field of battle, for battle every one agreed was impending; and, to gratify their natural curiosity. Redwald sent out quick and alert members of his troop, to act as messengers, and bear speedy news from the scene of action.

The night set in clear and bright, as we have already seen; and while poor Elfric was wandering about uneasily beneath that brilliant sky, the same stars looked down peacefully upon his home, where all slept sweetly under the fostering care, as they would have said, of their guardian angels.

The morn broke brightly, and with every promise of a fine harvest day. The labourers were speedily again in the fields; the cattle wandered under the herdsman's care to their distant pastures; the subdued tinkling of the sheep bells met the ear, and the other subdued sounds which soothe the air on a summer's day; and so the hours fled by, and no one would have dreamed that, not twenty miles away, man met man in the fierce and deadly struggle of war.

When the reapers assembled for their midday meal, they discussed the merits of the quarrel, and nearly all those who had been brought under the eye of "Edwy the Fair" were eager in pleading his cause, and trying to find some extenuation of his misdeeds in the matter of the illegal marriage, for such it was, from the mildest point of view; and scarcely a voice was raised on the opposite side, until Ella drew near the scene of conversation, and observed that "while God forbid they should judge the matter harshly, yet law was law, and right was right, and a beautiful face or winsome look could not change it."

Strolling near the field, seemingly absorbed in thought, walked Redwald, and seeing the reapers, he came towards them.

"A picture of peaceful enjoyment," he quietly said. "How often have I wished I could but lay down sword and lance to take more innocent weapons in hand, and to spend my declining days 'mid scenes like these."

"Indeed!" said Ella. "It is generally thought that men whose trade is war love their calling."

"Yes; sometimes the fierce din of battle seems a pastime fit for the gods, but the banquet is apt to cloy."

"Have you followed your profession for many years?"

"Since I was a mere child; even my boyhood was passed amid the din of arms."

There were very few professional soldiers in that day, and they were much dreaded. An Englishman was always ready to take up arms when lawfully called by his feudal superior, or when home or civil rights were in danger, but he generally laid them down and returned to his fields with joy; hence the rustics looked upon a man like Redwald with much undisguised curiosity.

"Think you we shall soon hear from the contending parties?" asked Alfred, who was, as usual, in attendance upon his father.

"Perhaps by nightfall; one of my men has just returned to tell me that the king's progress was stopped by an entrenched camp of the rebels, and that they expected to fight at early dawn."

The news was unexpected, and every one felt his heart beat more quickly.

"I have a messenger already on the spot, and so soon as the royal forces have gained the victory he will speed hither as fast as four legs can bring him; we shall probably hear by eventide."

It is needless to say how every one panted for the decisive news. Ella and Alfred soon returned to the castle, and Redwald took his horse, and rode out, as he said, to meet the messenger.

The hours seemed to pass more slowly; the sun drew near the west, the shadows lengthened; and Ella, with the lady Edith, Alfred, Edgitha, and all the members of the little society, could hardly bend their minds to any occupation, mental or physical. Elfric was ever in their thoughts.

"O Ella!" said his wife, "this suspense is very hard to bear; I long to hear about our boy."

The mother's heart was bound up in him, as if there were no other life in danger that day; Edwy or Edgar, it was little to her in comparison with her longing for her first-born son.

"He is in God's Hands, dearest!" returned her husband; "and in better Hands than ours."

Well might the thoughts of the lady Edith be concentrated on the crisis before her. She had borne, with a mother's wounded heart, the separation of three years, and now it was a question of a few short hours whether she should ever see him again or not. Now fancy painted him wounded, nay dying, on the bloodstained field; now it impelled her to sally forth towards the scene, as though her feeble strength could bear her to him. Now she sought the chapel, and found refuge in prayer. She had found refuge many many hours of that eventful day, but especially since Redwald had borne the news of the imminent battle.

At length the long suspense was ended. Redwald was seen riding at full speed towards the castle, followed by the long-expected messenger.

"Victory! victory!" he cried; "the rebels are defeated; the king shall enjoy his own."

"But Elfric, my son! my son!"

"Is safe: and will be here in a day or two, perhaps tomorrow."

"Thank God!" and the overcharged heart found relief in tears—happy tears of joy.

The messenger who followed Redwald brought detailed accounts of the event. According to his statements it appeared that the king had broken through the hostile entrenchment, and had scattered their forces in the first attack. The messenger particularly asserted that he had seen Elfric, and had been charged with the fondest messages for home, where the youth hoped to be in a few days at the latest, seeing there was no longer an enemy to fear.

The hearts of all present were filled with thankfulness and joy.

"Come, my beloved Edith," said the old thane. "Let us go first to thank God;" and they went together to the chapel which had witnessed so many earnest prayers that day—now, they believed, so fully answered.

All gloom and despondency seemed removed, and Ella went forth to walk alone in the woods, to meditate in silence on the goodness of God. Nearly each evening this had been his habit. The woods, he said, were God's first temples, and when alone he best raised his heart from nature to nature's God.

His thoughts were happy that evening: his first-born boy would be restored to him, and, like the father in the Gospels, he longed to embrace the prodigal, and to tell him that all was forgiven. But he schooled himself to patience, and many a fervent thanksgiving did he offer as he wandered amidst the grassy glades.