"I wished to speak with you, Elfric," said the abbot, "upon a very serious matter. When you first came here, I was delighted to have you as a companion to the prince. You were evidently well brought up, and bore an excellent character; but, I grieve to say, you have greatly changed for the worse. Are you not aware of it?"

"No, father. What have I done?"

Dunstan sighed at the tone of the reply, and continued—"It is not any particular action of which I wish to accuse you, but of the general tenor of your conduct. I do not speak harshly, my boy; but if truth be told, you are as idle as you were once diligent, as sullen and reserved as once candid and open: and, my son, your face tells a tale of even worse things, and, but that I am puzzled to know where you could obtain the means of self indulgence, I should attribute more serious vices to you."

"Who has accused me, father?"

"Yourself—that is, your own face and manner. Did you ever contemplate yourself in a mirror when at home? There is a steel one against that wall, go and look at yourself now."

Elfric blushed deeply.

"My face is still the same," he said.

"It is the same, and yet not the same. Innocence once took her place at its portals, and had sealed it as her own; the expression is all changed; my boy, I am absolutely certain that all is not well with you. For your own sake, delay no longer to avoid the danger of losing your salvation, for the habits you form now will perhaps cling to you through life. Turn now to your own self; confess your sin, and be at peace."

"I came to confession at Shrovetide; I am not required to come now, am I?"

"Required? No, my boy, it is your own sense of guilt, alone, which should draw you. The Church, since there has been no public scandal, leaves you to your own judgment at such a time as this. Have you never felt such remorse of conscience as would tell you your duty?"

"Never."

He thought of Good Friday, and blushed.

"Your tone and words belie each other, my boy. God grant you repentance; you will not accept my help now, but the time may come when you will seek help in vain."

Elfric bowed, without reply, and at a sign left the chamber.

A few weeks later, at the beginning of November, Edred left London for a tour in the west, and quitted his nephews with more than his usual affection, although his goodbye to Elfric was more constrained, for the good old king, not knowing the whole truth, was beginning to fear that Elfric was a dangerous companion. He little thought that he was rather sinned against than sinning.

Dunstan was to follow him in a week, and only remained behind to discharge necessary business.

The heart of the amorous Edwy beat with delight as he saw his uncle depart, and he made arrangements at once to spend the night after Dunstan's departure in mirth and jollity at the house of Ethelgiva and her fair daughter.

He came back after an interview with Redwald on the subject, and found Elfric in their common study. There was an alcove in the room, and it was covered by a curtain.

"O Elfric," said the prince, "is it not delightful? The two tyrants, the king and the monk, will soon be gone. I wish the Evil One would fly off with them both, and when the cat is away will not the mice play? I have made all the arrangements; we shall have such a night at the lady Ethelgiva's."

"How is the fair Elgiva?"

It was now Edwy's turn to blush and look confused.

"I wish I had the power of teasing you, Elfric. But if you have a secret you keep it close. Remember old Dunstan vanishes on the fifteenth, and the same evening, oh, won't it be joyful? But I am tired of work. Come and let us take some fresh air."

They left the room, when the curtain parted, and the astonished countenance of Father Benedict, who had been quietly reading in the deep embrasure of the window, presently appeared. He looked like a man at whose feet a thunderbolt had fallen, and hastily left the room.

The week passed rapidly away, and at its close Dunstan took his departure. A train of horses awaited him, and he bade the young princes Edwy and Edgar farewell, with the usual charge to work diligently and obey Father Benedict.

That same night, after the clerks had sung compline in the chapel, and the chamberlain had seen to the safety of the palace, Edwy came quietly to the room of his page, and the two left as on the first occasion. Redwald attended them, and just before the boat left the bank he spoke a word of caution.

"I fear," he said, in a low tone, "that all is not quite right. That old fox Dunstan is up to some trick; he has not really left town."

"Perhaps he has a similar appointment tonight," said Edwy, sarcastically. "I should keep mine though he and all his monks from Glastonbury barred the way."

They reached the castellated mansion of Ethelgiva in due course, and the programme of the former evening was repeated, save that, if there was any change, the conversation was more licentious, and the wine cup passed more freely.

It was midnight, and one of the company was favouring them with a song of questionable propriety, when a heavy knock was heard at the door. The servants went to answer it, and all the company awaited the issue in suspense.

One of the principal domestics returned with haste, and whispered some words into the ear of Ethelgiva—which seemed to discompose her.

"What can this mean?" she said. "A guard of soldiers demand admittance in the king's name?"

A louder knocking attested the fact.

"You must admit them, or they will batter the door down. Edwy, Elfric! here, hide yourselves behind that curtain, it veils a deep recess."

They had scarcely concealed themselves when Dunstan entered, attended by a guard of the royal hus-carles.

"What means this insolence?" said Ethelgiva.

"No insolence is intended, royal lady, nor could be offered to the widow of the Etheling, by me," replied Dunstan, "but I seek to discharge a sacred trust committed to me. Where are my pupils, the Prince Edwy and his companion?"

"In their beds, at the palace, I should suppose."

"Nay, be not so perfidious; they are here, lady, and probably within hearing; they must come forth, or I must order the guard to search the house, which I should regret."

"By whose authority?"

"By that of the king, whose signet is on my hand."

"They are not here; they left half-an-hour ago."

"Pardon me, madam, if I observe that we have watched the house for an hour.

"Had not this scene better terminate?" he added, with icy coldness.

At this moment a favourite dog, which Edwy had often petted, and which had entered with the guard, found him out behind the curtain, and in its vociferous joy betrayed the whole secret.

Confusion or smiles sat on every face save that of the imperturbable Dunstan.

"Your dog, madam, is more truthful than its mistress," he said, bluntly yet quietly; and then, advancing to the recess, he drew aside the curtain and gazed upon the discovered couple.

"Will you kindly return to the palace with me?"

"How dare you, insolent monk, intrude upon the pleasures of your future king?"

"I dare by the orders of the present king, your royal uncle, who has committed the whole matter into my hands; and, Prince Edwy, in the discharge of my duty 'dare' is a superfluous word. Will you, as I said before, both follow me, if you are sufficiently masters of yourselves to do so?"

The import of all this was seen at a glance, but there was no course but submission, and Edwy well knew how utterly indefensible his conduct was; so, with crestfallen gait, he and Elfric followed their captor to the river, where was another large boat by the side of their own. They entered it, and returned to the palace stairs much more sober than on previous occasions.

CHAPTER VII. "THE KING IS DEAD!—LONG LIVE THE KING!"

The unhappy Elfric passed the night in a most unenviable frame of mind. He felt distinctly how utterly he was in the power of Dunstan, and that he could only expect to return home in disgrace; yet there was no real repentance in all this: he had sinned and suffered, but although he dreaded punishment he no longer hated sin.

He scarcely slept at all, and early in the morning he rose to seek an interview with Edwy, when he found that he was a prisoner. One of the hus-carles posted at his door forbade all communication.

Early in the morning the bell sounded for the early service, still he was not released, and later his breakfast was brought to him, after which he heard a heavy step approaching, and Dunstan appeared at the door of the sleeping chamber.

He entered, and gazed at Elfric for a moment without speaking, as if he would read his very heart by his face; it was hardly comfortable.

"Elfric," he said at last, "do you remember the warning I gave you six months ago?"

"No," said Elfric, determined, in desperation, to deny everything.

"I fear you are hardly telling me the truth; you must remember it, unhappy boy! Why were you not warned in time? Why did you refuse the advice which might have saved you from all this?"

"Because it was my fate, I suppose."

"Men make their own fates, and as they make their beds so must they lie upon them; however, I have not come here to reproach you, but to bid you prepare to return home."

"Home?—so soon?" said Elfric.

"Yes, you must leave tomorrow, when a messenger will be prepared to accompany you, and to explain the cause of your dismissal from court to your father, whom I most sincerely pity; and let me hope that you will find leisure to repent of your grievous sin in the solitude of your native home."

"Must my father be told everything?"

"I fear he must: you have left us no choice; and it is the better thing, both for him and for you; he will understand better what steps are necessary for your reformation—a reformation, I trust, which will be accomplished in good time, whereat no one will rejoice more than I."

A pert answer rose to Elfric's lips, but he dared not give utterance to it; the speaker was too great in his wrath to be defied with impunity.

"Farewell," said Dunstan, "would that I could say the word with brighter hopes; but should you ever repent of your sin, as I trust you may, it will gladden me to hear of it. I fear you may have done great harm to England in the person of her future king, but God forgive you in that case."

Elfric felt the injustice of the last accusation; he coloured, and an indignant denial had almost risen to his lips, but he repressed it for Edwy's sake—faithful, even in his vice, to his friend.

"Am I to consider myself a prisoner? you have posted a sentinel, as if I were a criminal."

"You must be confined to your apartment, but you may have books and anything else you desire. The prince is forbidden to see you again. Your confinement will only be for one day; tomorrow you will be free enough; let me beg you to use the occasion for calm reflection, and, I hope, penitence."

Dunstan left the room, and Elfric heard his retreating steps go heavily down the stairs, when a sudden and almost unaccountable feeling came over him—a feeling that he had thrown himself away, and that he was committed to evil, perhaps never to be able to retrace his course, never to all eternity; the retreating steps sounded as if his sentence were passed and the door of mercy shut. He shook off the strange feeling; yet, could he have seen the future which lay undiscovered before him, and which must intervene before he should see that face again, or hear those steps, he might have been unable thus to shake off the nameless dread.

The day wore away, night drew on; he laid himself down and tried to sleep, when he heard voices conversing outside, and recognised Edwy's tones; immediately after the prince entered.

"What a shame, Elfric," he said, "to make you a prisoner like this, and to send you away—for they say you are to go tomorrow—you shall not be forgotten if ever I become king, and I don't think it will be long first. The first thing I shall do will be to send for you; you will come; won't you?"

"I will be yours for life or death."

"I knew it, and this is the faithful friend from whom they would separate me; well, we will have this last evening together in peace; old Dunstan has gone out, and Redwald has put a man as your guard who never sees anything he is not wanted to see."

"What a convenient thing!"

"But you seem very dull; is anything on your mind which I do not know? What did Dunstan say to you?"

"He is going to write home to my father all particulars. It will make home miserable."

"Perhaps we may find a remedy for that," said Edwy, and left the room hastily.

Shortly he returned in company with Redwald.

"Come with us, Elfric," said the prince "there is no one in the palace to interfere with us. Old Dunstan received a sudden message, and has gone out hastily; we will go and see what he has written."

Somewhat startled at the audacity of the proposal, Elfric followed the prince, and Redwald accompanied them. After passing through a few passages, they arrived at the cell, or rather study, usually occupied by Dunstan when at court, and entered it, not without a slight feeling of dread, or rather of reluctance.

"Here it is," said Edwy, and held up a parchment, folded, sealed, and directed to "Ella, Thane of Aescendune."

"I should like to know what he has written," said the prince. "Redwald, you understand these things; can you open the letter without breaking the seal?"

"There is no need of that," replied the captain of the hus-carles, "I can easily seal it again; see, there is the signet, and here the wax."

So he broke the letter open and extended it to the prince, whose liberal education had given him the faculty of reading the monkish Latin, in which Dunstan wrote, at a glance, and he read aloud:

"TO MY BROTHER IN CHRIST,

"ELLA, THANE OF AESCENDUNE—

"It grieveth me much, most beloved brother, to be under the necessity of sending your son Elfric home in some little disgrace; but it is, alas a necessity that I should do so, in virtue of the authority our good lord and king, Edred, hath entrusted to me. The lad was bright, and, I think, innocent of aught like deadly sin, when he came to this huge Babel, where the devil seems to lead men even as he will, and he hath fallen here into evil company—nay, into the very company most evil of all in this wicked world, that of designing and shameless women, albeit of noble birth. It hath been made apparent to me that there is great danger to both the prince and your son in any further connection, therefore I return Elfric to your care, sincerely hoping that, by God's help, you will be enabled to take such measures as will lead to his speedy reformation, for which I devoutly pray. The bearer will give such further information as you may desire.

"Wishing you health, and an abiding place in the favour of God and His saints—Your brother in the faith of Christ,

"DUNSTAN, O.S.B."

Edwy read the letter aloud with many a vindictive comment, and then said to Redwald—"What can be done? Must this letter go?"

"Does your father know the Saint's handwriting, Elfric?"

"He never heard from him before, I believe."

"Well, then, I will venture to enclose a different message," and he sat down at the table, and wrote—"TO MY BROTHER IN CHRIST,

"ELLA, THANE OF AESCENDUNE—

"It rejoiceth me much, most beloved brother, to send you good tidings of the good behaviour and growth in grace of your son, whom the king hath concluded to send home for the benefit of his health, since London hath in some degree destroyed the ruddy hue of his countenance, and he needeth a change, as his paleness sufficiently declareth.

"The king hath bidden me express his great satisfaction with the lad's conduct, and the prince mourneth his enforced departure. Wishing you health and an abiding place in the favour of God and His saints—Your brother in the faith of Christ,

"DUNSTAN, O.S.B."

The boys laughed aloud as they read the forgery.

"But about the messenger—will he not tell the truth?"

"Oh, I will see to him, he is not above a bribe, and knows it is his interest to serve his future king, although Dunstan thinks him so trusty."

All at once the booming of a heavy bell smote their ears.

"It is the bell of St. Paul's, it tolls for the death of some noble," said Redwald; "what can it mean? has any member of the royal family been ill?"

They listened to the solemn dirge-like sound as it floated through the air, calling upon all good Christians to pray for the repose of the departed or departing soul. No prayer rose to their lips, and they soon returned to the subject in hand.

"When is the letter to be despatched?"

"Early in the morning the messenger will await you; and now, I should recommend some sleep to prepare for a fatiguing journey."

Elfric and the prince returned to their chamber, but they did not take Redwald's hint, and remained talking till just before daybreak, when they were aroused by the hasty step of an armed heel, and Redwald stood before them. His demeanour was very strange; he bent down on one knee, took the hand of Edwy, who resigned it passively to him, kissed it and cried aloud—"God save the king!"

"What can you mean, Redwald?" exclaimed both the youths.

"Heard you not the passing bell last night? Edred sleeps with his fathers; he died at Frome on St. Clement's day."

For a moment they were both silent.

"And Edwy, the great grandson of Alfred, is king of England."

At first the young prince was deeply shocked at the sudden news of the death of his uncle, to whom, in spite of appearances, he was somewhat attached. He turned pale, and was again silent for some minutes; at last, he gulped down a cup of water, and asked—"But how did Dunstan know?"

"Why, it is a strange tale. Three days ago, at the very hour the king must have died, he says that he saw a bright light, and beheld a vision of angels, who said, 'Edred hath died in the Lord,' but he treated it as a dream, and last night a messenger came with the news of the sudden illness of the king, bidding Dunstan hasten to his side. He left everything, and started immediately, but in a few miles met another messenger, bearing the news of the death. He has gone on, but sent the messenger forward to the Bishop of London, who caused the great bell to be tolled.

"We must all die some day," said Edwy, musingly; "but it is very very sudden."

"And I trust he has obtained a better kingdom," added Redwald; "he must, you know, if the monks tell the truth, so why should we weep for him?"

"At least," said Edwy, looking up, "Elfric need not go home now."

"No, certainly not, but he had better disappear from court for a time. The lady Ethelgiva might afford him hospitality, or he might stay at the royal palace at Kingston. I will tell the messenger to keep out of the way, and Dunstan may suppose that his orders have been obeyed to the letter."

"Why should we trouble what he may think or say?"

"Because the Witan has not yet met, and until it has gone through the form, the mere form, of recognising your title, you are not actually king. Dunstan has some influence. Suppose he should use it for Edgar?"

"Edgar, the pale-faced little priestling!"

"All the better for that in Dunstan's eyes. Nay, be advised, my king; keep all things quiet until the coronation is over, then let Dunstan know who you are and who he is."

"Indeed I will. He shall have cause to rue his insolent behaviour the other night."

"Bide your time, my liege; and now the great officers of state require your presence below."

A few days later a sorrowful procession entered the old city of Winchester, the capital of Wessex, and once a favourite residence of Edred, now to be his last earthly resting place. Much had the citizens loved him; and as the long train defiled into the open space around the old minster—old, even then—the vast assemblage, grouped beneath the trees around the sacred precincts, lifted up their voices and joined in the funeral hymn, while many wept tears of genuine sorrow. It was awe inspiring, that burst of tuneful wailing, as the monks entered the sacred pile, and it made men's hearts thrill with the sense of the unseen world into which their king had entered, and where, as they believed, their supplications might yet follow him.

There were the chief mourners—Edwy and Edgar—and they followed the royal corpse, the latter greatly afflicted, and shedding genuine tears of sorrow—and the royal household. All the nobility of Wessex, and many of the nobles from Mercia and other provinces, were gathered together, and amidst the solemn silence of the vast crowd, Dunstan performed the last sad and solemn rites with a broken voice; while the archbishop—Odo the Good, as he was frequently called—assisted in the dread solemnity.

It was over; the coffin was lowered to the royal vaults to repose in peace, the incenses had ceased to float dreamily beneath the lofty roof,[xi] the various lights which had borne part in the ceremony were extinguished, the choral anthem had ceased, for Edred slept with his fathers.

And outside, the future king was welcomed with loud cries of "God save King Edwy, and make him just as Alfred, pious as Edred, and warlike as Athelstane!"

"Long live the heir of Cerdic's ancient line!"

Thus their cries anticipated the decision of the Witan, and without all was noise and clamour; while within the sacred fane the ashes of him who had so lately ruled England rested in peace by the side of his royal father Edward, the son of Alfred, three of whose sons—Athelstane, Edmund, Edred—had now reigned in succession.

It must not be supposed that Edwy was as yet king by the law of the land. The early English writers all speak of their kings as elected; it was not until the Witan had recognised them, that they were crowned and assumed the royal prerogatives.

Edwy had followed Redwald's advice: he had kept Elfric out of the way, and meant to do so until his coronation day. And meanwhile he condescended to disguise his real feelings, and to affect sorrow for his past failings when in the presence of Dunstan.

Yet he took advantage of the greater liberty he now enjoyed to renew his visits to the mansion up the Thames, and to spend whole days in the society of Elgiva. In their simplicity and deep love they thought all the obstacles to their happy union now removed. Alas! ill-fated pair!

CHAPTER VIII. THE CORONATION.

Nothing could exceed in solemnity the "hallowing of the king," as the coronation ceremony was termed in Anglo-Saxon times. It was looked upon as an event of both civil and ecclesiastical importance, and therefore nothing was omitted which could lend dignity to the occasion.

The Witan, or parliament, had already met and given its consent to the coronation of Edwy. It was not, as we have already remarked, a mere matter of course that the direct heir should occupy the throne. Edred had already ascended, while Edwy, the son of his elder brother, was an infant, not as regent, but as king; and in any case of unfitness on the part of the heir apparent, it was in the power of the Witan to pass him over, and to choose for the public good some other member of the royal house. The same Witan conferred upon Edgar the title of sub-king of Mercia under his brother.

Solemn and imposing was the meeting of the Witenagemot, or "assembly of the wise." It was divided into three estates. The first consisted of the only class who, as a rule, had any learning in those days—the clergy, represented by the bishop, abbot, and their principal officials: the second consisted of the vassal kings of Scotland, Cumbria, Wales, Mona, the Hebrides, and other dependent states, the great earls, as of Mercia or East Anglia, and other mighty magnates: the third, of the lesser thanes, who were the especial vassals of the king, or the great landholders, for the possession of land was an essential part of a title to nobility.

Amongst these sat Ella of Aescendune, who, in spite of his age, had come to the metropolis to testify his loyalty and fealty to the son of the murdered Edmund, his old friend and companion in arms, and to behold his own eldest son once more.

It was the morning of a beautiful day in early spring, one of those days of which the poet has written—

"Sweet day, so calm, so pure, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky"

—when winter seems to have loosed its stern hold upon the frozen earth, and the songs of countless birds welcome the bright sunlight, the harbinger of approaching summer.

The roads leading to Kingston-on-Thames were thronged with travellers of every degree—the ealdorman or earl with his numerous attendants, the bishop with rude ecclesiastical pomp, the peasant in his rough jerkin— all hastening to the approaching ceremony, which, as it had been definitely fixed, was to take place at that royal city.

There Athelstane had been crowned with great pomp and splendour, for it was peculiarly "Cynges tun" or the King's Town, and after the coronation it was customary for the newly-crowned monarch to take formal possession of his kingdom by standing on a great stone in the churchyard.

The previous night, Archbishop Odo had arrived from Canterbury, and his bosom friend and brother, Dunstan, from Glastonbury, as also Cynesige, Bishop of Lichfield, a man in every way like-minded with them; while nearly all the other prelates, abbots, and nobles, arrived in the early morn of the eventful day.

The solemn service of the coronation mass was about to commence, and the people were assembling in the great church of St. Mary, filling every inch of available room. Every figure was bent forward in earnest gaze, and every heart seemed to beat more quickly, as the faint and distant sound of deep solemn music, the monastic choirs chanting the processional psalms, drew near.

Suddenly the jubilant strains filled the whole church, as the white-robed train entered the sacred building while they sang:

"Quoniam praevenisti eum in benedictionibus dulcedinis, posuisti in capiti ejus coronam de lapide pretioso." [xii]

Incense ascended in clouds to the lofty roof; torches were uplifted, banners floated in the air, every eye was now strained to catch a glimpse of the youthful monarch.

He came at last. Oh, how lovely the ill-fated boy looked that day! His beauty was of a somewhat fragile character, his complexion almost too fair, his hair shone around his shoulders in waves of gold, for men then wore their hair long, his eyes blue as the azure vault on that sweet spring morning: alas, that his spiritual being should not have been equally fair!

Elfric stood by his father, amidst the crowd of thanes, near the rood screen, for he had spent the last few days at Kingston, and there his father had found him, and had embraced him with joy, little dreaming of the change which had come over his darling boy.

"Look, father, is he not every inch a king?" Elfric could not help exclaiming, forgetting the place and the occasion in his pride in his king and his friend.

He would have been one of the four boys who bore the royal train, but it had not seemed advisable on such a day to offend Dunstan too seriously.

The mass proceeded after the royal party had all taken their places, and the coronation service was incorporated into the rite, following the Nicene Creed and preceding the canon.

Kneeling before the altar, the young prince might well tremble with emotion. Before him stood the archbishop, clad in full pontifical vestments; around were the most noted prelates and wisest abbots of England; behind him the nobility, gentry, and commonalty of the whole country—all gazing upon him, as the archbishop dictated the solemn words of the oath, which Edwy repeated with trembling voice after him.

"In the name of the ever-blessed Trinity, I promise three things to the Christian people, my subjects:

"First, that the Church of God within my realm shall enjoy peace, free from any molestation."

"Second, that I will prevent, to the utmost of my power, theft and every fraud in all ranks of men."

"Thirdly, that I will preserve and maintain justice and mercy in all judicial proceedings, so that the good and merciful God may, according to His mercy, forgive us all our sins, Who liveth and reigneth for ever and ever. Amen."

Then followed a most solemn charge from "Odo the Good," setting forth all the deep responsibilities of the oath Edwy had taken, and of the awful account to be rendered to God of the flock committed to his youthful charge, at the great and awful day of judgment.

Then the holy oil was solemnly poured upon the head of the kneeling boy, after which he made the usual offertory of "gold, frankincense, and myrrh," at the altar, emblematical of the visit of the three kings of old, who from Sheba bore their gold and incense to the Lord.

Then was the sacred bracelet put upon his arm, the crown on his head, the sceptre in his hand, after which the mass proceeded.

It is touching to recall the worship of those far-off days, when all the surrounding circumstances differed so widely from those of the present hour; yet the Church, in her holy conservatism, has kept intact and almost changeless all that is hers; that day the "Nicene Creed," "Sanctus," "Agnus Dei," "Gloria in Excelsis," rolled as now in strains of melody towards heaven, and the "Te Deum" which concluded the jubilant service is our Te Deum still, albeit in the vulgar tongue.

The sacred rites concluded, the royal procession left the church and proceeded to the churchyard, when Edwy took formal possession of Wessex, by the ceremony of standing upon a large rock called the King's Stone, whence the town derived its name.

The feast was spread in the palace hard by, and all the nobles and thanes (if the words are not synonymous) flocked thither, while the multitude had their liberal feast spread at various tables throughout the town, at the royal expense.

Elfric followed his father to the palace, and was about to take his place at the board, when a page appeared and summoned him to the presence of Edwy.

"I shall keep a vacant place for you by my side," said Ella, "so that we may feast together, my son, when the king releases you; it is a great honour that he should think of you now."

Elfric followed the messenger, who led him into the interior of the palace, where he found Edwy impatiently awaiting him in the royal dressing chamber.

Elfric had expected to find the newly-crowned king deeply impressed, but if such had been the case, at the moment it had passed away.

"Thanks to all the saints, including St. George, and especially the dragon, that I can look into your jolly face again, Elfric, it is a relief after all the grim-beards who have surrounded me today. I shudder when I think of them."

Elfric had been about to kneel and kiss the royal hand, in token of homage, but Edwy saw the intention and prohibited him.

"No more of that an thou lovest me, Elfric; my poor hand is almost worn out already."

"The day must have tired you, the scene was so exciting."

Edwy yawned as he replied, "Thank God it is over; I thought Odo was going to preach to me all day, and the incense almost stifled me; the one good thing is that it is done now, and all England—Kent, Sussex, Wessex, Essex, Northumbria, East Anglia, and Mercia—have all acknowledged me as their liege lord, the Basileus of Britain. What is done can't be undone, and Dunstan may eat his leek now, and go to fight Satan again."

Elfric looked up in some surprise.

"What do you think, my friend; who do you suppose is here in the palace, in the royal apartments?"

"Who?"

"Elgiva, the fair Elgiva, the lovely Elgiva, dear Elgiva, and her mother. Oh, but I shall love to look upon her face when the feast is done, and the grim-beards have gone!"

"But Dunstan?"

"Dunstan may go and hang himself; he can't scrape off the consecrated oil, or carry away crown, bracelet, and sceptre, to hide with the other royal treasures at Glastonbury; but the feast is beginning, and you must come and sit on my right hand."

"No, no," said Elfric, who saw at once what an impropriety this would be, "not yet; besides, my old father is here, and has kept a seat beside himself for me."

"Well, goodbye for the present; I shall expect you after the feast. Elgiva will be glad to see you."

Elfric returned to his father, but a feeling of sadness had taken possession of him, an apprehension of coming evil.

The feast began; the clergy and the nobility of the land were assembled in the great hail of the palace, and there was that profusion of good cheer which befitted the day, for the English were, like their German ancestors, in the habit of considering the feast an essential part of any solemnity.

How much was eaten and drunk upon the occasion it would be dangerous to say, for it would probably exceed all modern experience, but it seemed to the impatient Edwy that the feast and the subsequent drinking of pledges and healths would never end, and he was impatient the whole time to get away and be in the company of the charmer.

An opportunity seemed at last to offer itself to his immature judgment. Gleemen had sung, harpers had harped, but the excitement culminated when Siward, a Northumbrian noble, who was a great musician, and skilful in improvisation, did not disdain, like the royal Alfred, to take the harp and pour forth an extemporary ode of great beauty, whereupon the whole multitude rose to their feet and waved their wine cups in the air, in ardent appreciation of the patriotic sentiments he had uttered, and the beauty of the music and poetry.

During the full din of their heated applause, when all eyes were fixed upon the accomplished musician, Edwy rose softly from his chair; a door was just behind him, and he took advantage of it to leave the hail and thread the passages quickly, till he came to the room where he had left Elgiva, when he threw aside his royal mantle and all his restraint at the same time.

It was not for a few moments that the company in the hall discovered the absence of their king, but when they did there was a sudden hush, and men looked at each other in mute astonishment; it appeared to all, with scarce an exception, a gross insult to the assembled majesty of the nation. [xiii]

Poor Edwy, in his thoughtlessness and want of proper feeling, little knew the deep anger such a proceeding would cause; in his lack of a reverential spirit he was constantly, as we have seen, offending against the respect due to the Church, the State, or himself—first as heir presumptive, then as king.

Men stood mute, as we have said, then murmurs of indignation at the slight arose, and all looked at Dunstan.

He beckoned to Cynesige of Lichfield, who came to his side.

"We must bring this thoughtless boy back," he said, "or great harm will be done."

"But how?"

"By persuasion, if possible. Follow me."

The two prelates entered the interior of the palace, and sought the king's private chamber.

As they drew near they heard the sound of merry laughter, and each of them frowned as men might do who were little accustomed to condone the weakness of human flesh. Entering the chamber very unceremoniously, they paused, as if aghast, when they beheld the king in the company of Elgiva, his royal diadem cast upon the ground.

He started in surprise, and for a moment in fear; then, remembering who he was, he exclaimed, angrily—"How dare you, sir monk, intrude upon the privacy of your king, unbidden?"

"We do so as the ambassadors of the King of kings."

It is out of our power to describe the scene which followed, the fiery words of Edwy, the stern yet quiet rejoinders of the churchmen, the tears of the mother and daughter; but it is well known how the scene ended. Edwy absolutely refused to return to the assembled guests, saying he would forfeit his kingdom first; and Dunstan replied that for his (Edwy's) own sake he should then be compelled to use force, and suiting the action to the word, he and Cynesige took each an arm of the youthful king, and led him back by compulsion to the assembled nobles and clergy.

Before condemning Dunstan, we must remember that Elgiva could not stand in the relation of the affianced bride of the king; that Edwy really seemed to set the laws of both Church and State at defiance, those very laws which but that day he had sworn solemnly to maintain; and that but recently he had stood in the relation of pupil to Dunstan, so that in his zeal for Church and State, the abbot forgot the respect due to the king. He saw only the boy, and forgot the sovereign.

The guests assembled in the banqueting hall had seen the desertion of their royal master with murmurs both loud and deep; but when they saw him return escorted by Dunstan and Cynesige, their unanimous approval showed that in their eyes the churchmen had taken a proper step.

Yet, although Edwy tried to make a show of having returned of his own free will, an innocent device at which his captors connived when they entered the hall with him, the bitterest passions were rankling in his heart, and he determined to take a terrible revenge, should it ever be in his power, upon Dunstan.

There was comparatively little show of merriment during the rest of the feast, and the noble company separated earlier than was usual on such occasions.

"If this be the way King Edwy treats his guests," said the Earl of Mercia, "he will find scant loyalty north of the Thames."

"Nor in East Anglia," said another.

"There is another of the line of Cerdic living."

"Yes, Edgar, his brother."

"Dunstan and Cynesige brought him back with some difficulty, I'll be bound."

"Yes; although he tried to smile, I saw the black frown hidden beneath."

"He will take revenge for all this."

"Upon whom?"

"Why, upon Dunstan to be sure."

"But how can he? Dunstan is too powerful for that."

"Wait and see."

Such was the general tone of the conversation, from which the sentiments of the community might be inferred.

Elfric went, as he had been bidden to do, at the conclusion of the feast, to seek Edwy, and found him, it is needless to state, in a towering rage.

"Elfric," he said, "am I a king? or did I dream I was crowned today?"

"You certainly were."

"And yet these insolent monks have dared to force me from the company of Elgiva to return to that sottish feast, and what is worse, I find they have dared to send her and her mother home under an escort, so that I cannot even apologise to them. As I live, if I am a king I will have revenge."

"I trust so, indeed," said Elfric, "they deserve death."

"I would it were in my power to inflict it; but this accursed monk—I go mad when I mention his name—is all too powerful. I believe Satan helps him."

"Still there may be ways, if you only wait till you can look around you."

"There may indeed."

"Only have patience; all will be in your hands some day."

"And if it be in my power I will restore the worship of Woden and Thor, and burn every monk's nest in the land."

"They were at least the gods of warriors."

"Elfric, you will stand by me, will you not?"

"With my life."

"Come to the window, now; see the old sots departing. There a priest, there a thane, there an earl—all drunk, I do believe; don't you think so?"

"Yes, yes," said Elfric, disregarding the testimony of both his eyes that they were all perfectly sober.

Just then his eye caught a very disagreeable object, and he turned somewhat pale.

"What are you looking at?" said Edwy.

"There is that old fox, Dunstan, talking with my father; he will learn that I am here."

"What does it matter?"

"Only that he will easily persuade my father to take me home."

"Then the commands of a king must outweigh those of a father. I have heard Dunstan say a king is the father of all his people, and I command you to stay."

"I want to stay with all my heart."

"Then you shall, even if I have to make a pretence of detaining you by force."

The anticipations of Elfric were not far wrong. Dunstan had found out the truth. He had sought out the old thane to condole with him upon the pain he supposed he must recently have inflicted by his letter.

"I cannot express to you, my old friend and brother," he said, "the great pain with which I sent your poor boy Elfric home, but it was a necessity."

"Sent him home?" said Ella.

"Yes, at the time our lamented Edred died."

"Sent him home!" repeated Ella, in such undisguised amazement that Dunstan soon perceived something was amiss, and in a few short minutes became possessed of the whole facts, while Ella learnt his son's disgrace.

They conferred long and earnestly. The father's heart was sorely wounded, but he could not think that Elfric would resist his commands, and he promised to take him back at once to Aescendune, where he hoped all would soon be well—"soon, very soon," he said falteringly.

So the old thane went to his lodgings, hard by the palace, where he awaited his son.

Late in the evening Elfric arrived, his countenance flushed with wine: he had been seeking courage for the part he had to play in the wine cup.

Long and painful, most painful, was the interview that followed. Hardened in his rebellion, the unhappy Elfric defied his father's authority and justified his sin, flatly refusing to return home, in which he pretended to be justified by "the duty a subject owed to his sovereign."

Thus roused to energy, Ella solemnly adjured his boy to remember the story of his uncle Oswald, and the sad fate he had met with. It was very seldom indeed that Ella alluded to his unhappy brother, the story was too painful; but now that Elfric seemed to be commencing a similar course of disobedience, the example of the miserable outlaw came too forcibly to his mind to be altogether suppressed.

"Beware, my son," added Ella, "lest the curse which fell upon Oswald fall upon you, and your younger brother succeed to your inheritance."

"It is not a large one," said Elfric, "and in that case, the king whom I serve will find me a better one."

"Is it not written, 'Put not your trust in princes?' O my son, my son; you will bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave!"

It was of no avail. The old thane arose in the morning with the intention of taking Elfric home even by force, such force as Dunstan had used, if necessary, but found that the youth had disappeared in the night; neither could he learn what had become of him, but he shrewdly guessed that the young king could have told him.

Broken-hearted by his son's cruel desertion, the thane of Aescendune returned home alone.

CHAPTER IX. GLASTONBURY ABBEY.

Rich in historical associations and reputed sanctity, the abbey of Glastonbury was the ecclesiastical centre of western England. Here grew the holy thorn which Joseph of Arimathea had planted when, fatigued with travel, he had struck his staff into the ground, and lo! a goodly tree; here was the holy well of which he had drunk, and where he baptized his converts, so that its waters became possessed of miraculous power to heal diseases.

Here again were memorials, dear to the vanquished Welsh; for did not Arthur, the great King Arthur, the hero of a thousand fights, the subject of gleeman's melody and of the minstrel's praise, lie buried here? if indeed he were dead, and not spirited away by magic power.

A Welsh population still existed around the abbey, for it was near the borders of West Wales, as a large portion of Devon and Cornwall was then called, and Exeter had not long become an English town. [xiv] The legends of Glastonbury were nearly all of that distant day when the Saxons and Angles had not yet discovered Britain, and she reposed safe under the protection of mighty Rome; hence, it was the object of pilgrimage and of deep veneration to all those of Celtic blood, while the English were unwilling to be behind in their veneration.

Here, in the first year of the great English king Athelstane, Dunstan was born, the son of Herstan and Kynedred, both persons of rank—a man destined to influence the Anglo-Saxon race first in person and then in spirit for generations—the greatest man of his time, whether, as his contemporaries thought, mighty for good, or, as men of narrower minds have thought, mighty for evil.

In his early youth, Glastonbury lay, as it lies now, in ruin and decay; the Danes had ravaged it, and its holy walls were no longer eloquent with prayer and praise. Yet the old inhabitants still talked with regret of the departed glories of the fane; the pilgrim and the stranger still visited the consecrated well, hoping to gain strength from its healing wave, for the soil had been hallowed by the blood of martyrs and the holy lives of saints; here kings and nobles, laying aside their greatness, had retired to prepare for the long and endless home, and in the calm seclusion of the cloister had found peace.

Here the mind of the young Dunstan was moulded for his future work; here, weak in body, but precocious in intellect, he drew in, as if with his vital breath, legend and tradition; here, from a body of Scottish missionaries, or, as we should now call them, Irish,[xv] he learned with rapidity all that a boy could acquire of civil or ecclesiastical lore, and both in Latin and in theology his progress amazed his tutors.

Up to this time the world had held possession of his heart, and, balancing the advantages of a religious and a secular life, he chose, as most young people would choose, the attractions of court, to which his parents' rank entitled him, and leaving Glastonbury he repaired to the court of Edmund.

There his extraordinary talents excited envy, and he was accused of magical arts: his harp had been heard to pour forth strains of ravishing beauty when no human hand was near, and other like prodigies, savouring of the black art, were said to attend him, so that he fled the court, and took refuge with his uncle, Elphege, the Bishop of Winchester.

A long illness followed, during which the youth, disgusted with the world, and startled by his narrow escape from death, reversed the choice he had previously made, and renounced the world and its pleasures.

Ordained priest at Winchester, he was sent back with a monk's attire to Glastonbury, where he gave himself up to austerities, such as, in a greater or less degree, always accompanied a conversion in those days; here miracles were reported to attend him, and stories of his personal conflicts with the Evil One were handed from mouth to mouth, until his fame had filled the country round.[xvi]

The influence he rapidly acquired enabled him to commence the great work of rebuilding Glastonbury, in which he was only interrupted by the frequent calls which he had to court, to become the adviser of King Edmund; where indeed he was often in the discharge of the office of prime minister of the kingdom, and showed as much aptitude in civil as in ecclesiastical affairs.

Glastonbury being rebuilt, the Benedictine rule [xvii] was introduced, and Dunstan himself became abbot. It was far the noblest and best monastic code of the day, being peculiarly adapted to prevent the cloister from becoming the abode of either idleness or profligacy.

But this was not done without much opposition; the secular priests—as the married clergy and those who lived amongst their flocks (as English clergy do now) were called—opposed the introduction of the Benedictine rule with all their might, and were always thorns in Dunstan's side.

The unfortunate Edmund, after the sad event at Pucklechurch, on the feast of St. Augustine, was buried at Glastonbury by the abbot, and his two sons, Edwy and Edgar, were put under Dunstan's especial care by the new king Edred. The rest of the story is tolerably well known to our readers.

The first steps of Edwy's reign were all taken with a view to one great end—to revenge himself and to destroy Dunstan, who, aware of the royal enmity, and of his inability to restrain the sovereign, withdrew himself quietly to Glastonbury, and confined himself to the discharge of his duties as its abbot.

But this did not satisfy Edwy, who, panting for the ruin of the monk he hated, sought occasion for a quarrel, and soon found it. Dunstan had been the royal almoner, and had had the disposal of large sums of money, for purposes connected with the Church, on which they had been strictly expended. Now Edwy required a strict account of all these disbursements, which Dunstan refused to give, saying it had already been given to Edred, and that no person had any right to investigate the charities of the departed king.

His stout resistance gained the day in the first instance, but Edwy never felt at rest while Dunstan lived at peace in the land, and Ethelgiva and her fair daughter were ever inciting him to fresh acts of hostility, little as he needed such incitement.

The first measures were of a very dishonourable kind. Evil reports were spread abroad to destroy the character of the great abbot, and prepare people's minds for his disgrace: then disaffection was stirred up amongst the secular clergy surrounding Glastonbury—a very easy thing; and attempts were made in vain to create a faction against him in his own abbey; then at last the neighbouring thanes, many of Danish extraction and scarcely Christian, were stirred up to invade the territory of the abbey, and were promised immunity and secure possession of their plunder. They liked the pleasant excitement of galloping over Dunstan's ecclesiastical patrimony, of plundering the farms and driving away the cattle, and there was scarcely a night in which some fresh outrage was not committed. At this point the action of our tale recommences.

It will be remembered that the father of Ella had found relief from his grief, after the death of his unhappy son Oswald, in building and endowing the monastery of St. Wilfred, situate on the river's bank, at a short distance from the hall.

The completion of the work had, however, been reserved for his son, and, everything being now done, it became the earnest desire of Ella, with the consent of the brethren who had been gathered into the incomplete building, to place it under the Benedictine rule.

For this end he determined to send a messenger to negotiate with Dunstan at Glastonbury, and, yielding to Alfred's most earnest request, he consented to send him, in company with Father Cuthbert, who was to be the future prior, upon the mission.

Since the desertion of Elfric, his brother Alfred had been as a ministering angel to his father, so tender had been his affection, yet so manly and pure. He was by nature gifted with great talents, and his progress in ecclesiastical lore, almost the only lore of the day, would have well fitted him for the Church; but if this idea had ever been in the mind of the thane, he put it aside after the departure of Elfric.

But it must not be supposed that the only literature of the period was in Latin. Alfred, the great King Alfred, skillful in learning as in war, had translated into English (as we have mentioned earlier in our tale) the History of the World, by Orosius, and other works, which formed a part of the royal library in the palace of Edred. All these works were known to his young namesake, Alfred, far better than they had been either to Edwy or Elfric, in their idleness, and he was well informed beyond the average scope of his time. But his imagination had long been fired by the accounts he had received of Glastonbury and its sanctuary, so that he eagerly besought his father to allow him to go thither.

But the poor old thane felt much like Jacob when he was begged to send Benjamin into Egypt. Elfric was not, so far as home ties were concerned, they had never heard of him since the coronation day, and now they would take Alfred from him.

It may seem strange to our readers that Ella should regard a journey from the Midlands to Glastonbury in so serious a light; but Wessex and Mercia had long been independent states, communication infrequent, and it would certainly be many weeks before Alfred could return; while inexperience magnified the actual dangers of the way.

Coaches and carriages were not in use, neither would the state of the roads have rendered such use practicable. All travellers were forced to journey on horseback, and, like Elfric when he departed from home, to carry all their baggage in a similar manner.

The navigation of the Avon, which would have opened the readiest road to the southwest, was impeded by sandbanks and rapids; there were as yet no locks, no canals.

Once the Romans had made matchless roads, as in other parts of their empire, but not a stone had been laid thereon since the days of Hengist and Horsa, and many a stone had been taken away for building purposes, or to pave the courtyards of Saxon homes.[xviii]

Still the ancient Foss Way, which once extended from Lincolnshire to Devonshire, formed the best route, and it was decided to travel by it, making a brief detour, so as to enable the party to pass the first night at the residence of an old friend of the family who dwelt on the high borderland which separates the counties of Oxford and Warwick, in old times the frontier between the two Celtic tribes, the Dobuni and the Carnabii.

So Father Cuthbert and Alfred, with three attendant serfs, left Aescendune early on a fine summer morning, and followed a byroad through the forest, until, after a few difficulties, arising from entanglement in copse or swamp, they reached the Foss Way. Wide and spacious, this grand old road ran through the dense forest in an almost unbroken line; huge trees overshadowed it on either side, and the growth of underwood was so dense that no one could penetrate it without difficulty. Sometimes the scene changed, and a dense swamp, amidst which the timber of former generations rotted away, succeeded, but the grand old road still offered, even in its decay, a firm and sure footing. Built with consummate skill, the lower strata of which it was composed remained so firm and unyielding, that, could the Romans but have returned for a few years, they might have restored it to its ancient perfection, when the traveller might post rapidly upon it from Lincoln even to Totness in Devonshire.

Little, however, did our travellers think of the grand men of old who had built this mighty causeway six or seven centuries earlier. Their chief feeling, when they reached it, was one of relief; the change was so acceptable from the tangled and miry bypath through the forest.

"Holy St. Wilfred," exclaimed Father Cuthbert, "but my steed hath wallowed like a hog. I have sunk in the deep mire where was no footing."

"A little grooming will soon make him clean again, father."

"But verily we have passed through a slough and a wilderness, and my inner man needeth refreshment; let us even partake of the savoury pies wherewith the provident care of thy father hath provided us."

The suggestion was by no means a bad one, and the party sat down on a green and sloping bank, overshadowed by a mighty oak which grew by the wayside. It was noontide, and the shelter from the heat was not at all unpleasant. Their wallets were overhauled, and choice provision found against famine by the road. There were few, very few inns where travellers could obtain decent accommodation, and every preparation had been made for a camp out when necessary.

So they ate their midday meal with thankfulness of heart, and reclined awhile ere courting more fatigue. The day was lovely, and the silence of the woods almost oppressive; nought save the hum of insects broke its tranquillity.

Fatigued by the exertions of the morning, the whole party fell asleep; the gentle breeze, the quiet rustling of the leaves, all combined to lull the senses. While they thus slept, the day wore on, and the sun was declining when they awoke and wondered that they had wasted their time for so long a period.

Starting again with renewed energy, they travelled onward through the mighty forest till sunset, when they approached the high ground which now runs along the northern boundary of Oxfordshire and of which Edgehill forms a portion. Though progress had been slow, for the road, although secure, was yet in so neglected a state as to form an obstacle to rapid travelling, and they had met no fellow travellers. Leaving the Foss Way, which followed the valley, and slowly ascending the hill by a well-marked track, they looked back from its summit upon a glorious view. Far as the eye could reach stretched the forest to the northward, one huge unbroken expanse save where the thin wreaths of smoke showed some village or homestead, where English farmers already wrestled with the obstacles nature had formed. But westward the view was more home-like; the setting sun was sinking behind the huge heights now known as the Malvern Hills, which reared their forms proudly in the distant horizon.

The western sky was rich in the hues of the departing sun, which cast its declining beams upon village and homestead, thinly scattered in the fertile vale through which the Foss Way pursued its course.

But our travellers did not stay long to contemplate the beauty of the scene; they were yet ten miles from the hospitable roof where they had purposed spending the night, and they had overslept themselves so long at their noontide halt, that they found darkness growing apace, while their weary animals could scarcely advance farther.

"Is there no inn, no Christian dwelling near, where we may repose? Verily my limbs bend beneath me with fatigue," said Father Cuthbert.

"There is no dwelling of Christian men nearer than the halls of the Thane of Rollrich, and we shall scarcely reach them for a couple of hours," said Oswy, the serf.

"Thou art a Job's comforter. What sayest thou, Anlac?"

"There are the remains of an old temple of heathen times not far from here, a little on the right hand of the road, but they say the place is haunted."

"Has it a roof to shelter us?"

"Part of the ruins are well covered."

"Then thither we will go. Peradventure it will prove a safe abiding place against wolves or evil men, and if there be demons we must even exorcise them."

When they had emerged from the forest, they had, as we have seen, ascended the high tableland which formed the northern frontier of the territory of the Dobuni—passing over the very ground where, seven hundred years later, the troops of the King and the Parliament were arrayed against each other in deadly combat for the first time.

But at this remote period the country where the Celts had once lived, and whence their civilised descendants had been driven by the English, had become a barren moorland. Scarce a tree grew on the heights, but a wild common, with valley and hill alternating, much as on Dartmoor at the present day, stretched before the travellers, and was traversed by the old Roman trackway. Dreary indeed it looked in the darkening twilight; here and there some huge crag overtopped the road, and then the track lay along a flat surface. It was after passing some huge misshapen atones, which spoke of early Celtic worship, that suddenly, in the distance on the right, the ruined temple lay before them.

Pillars of beautiful workmanship, evidently reared by Roman skill, surrounded a paved quadrangle raised upon a terrace approached on all sides by steps. These steps and the pavement were alike of stone, but where weeds could grow they had grown, and the footing was damp and slippery with rank vegetation and fungus growth.

At the extremity of the quadrangle the roof still partly covered the adytum or shrine from the sky, the platform reared itself upon its flight of massive steps where early British Christianity had demolished the idol, and beneath were chambers once appropriated to the use of the priests, which, by the aid of fire, could shortly be made habitable.

There was plenty of brushwood and underwood near, and our travellers speedily made a large fire, which expelled the damp from the place, albeit, as the smoke could only escape by an aperture in the roof, which, it is needless to say, was not embraced in the original design of the architect, it was not till the blaze had subsided and the glowing embers alone warmed the chamber, that mortal lungs could bear the stifling atmosphere, so charged had it been with smoke.

Still it was very acceptable shelter to the travellers, who must otherwise have camped out on the exposed moorland, and they made a hearty and comfortable meal, which being concluded, Father Cuthbert made a very brief address.

"My brethren," he said, "we have travelled, like Abraham from Ur of the Chaldees, not 'sine numine,' that is not without God's protection; and as we are about to sleep in a place where devils once deluded Christian people, it will not be amiss to say the night song, and commend ourselves 'in manus Altissimi,' that is to say, to God's care."

The compline service was familiar to each one present, and Father Cuthbert intoned it in a stentorian voice, particularly those portions of the 91st Psalm which seemed to defy the Evil One, and he recited just as if he were sure Satan was listening:

"Thou shalt go upon the lion and the adder; the young lion and the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet."

All the company seemed to feel comfort in the words, and, first posting a sentinel, to be relieved every three hours, they commended themselves to sleep.

Alfred found his couch very pleasant at first, but before he had been long asleep his rest became disturbed by singular dreams. He thought he was standing within a grassy glade in a deep forest; it was darkening twilight, and he felt anxious to find his way from the spot, when his guardian angel appeared to him, and pointed out a narrow track between two huge rocks. He followed until he heard many voices, and saw a strange light reflected on the tree tops, as if from beneath, when amidst the din of voices he recognised Elfric's tones.

"Wouldst thou save thy brother, then proceed," his guardian angel seemed to whisper.

He strove, in his dream, to proceed, when he awoke so vividly impressed that he felt convinced coming events were casting their shadows before. He could not drive the thought of Elfric from his mind; he slept, but again in wild dreams his brother seemed to appear; once he seemed to oppose Elfric's passage over a plank which crossed a roaring torrent; then he seemed as if he were falling, falling, amidst rushing waters, when he awoke.

"I can sleep no longer. I will look out at the night," he said.

A faint moon had arisen, and lent an uncertain light to the outlines of hill, crag, and moorland, while it gilded the cornice above, where the wind seemed to linger and moan over departed greatness. The Druidical worship of olden days, the deluded worshippers now turned into dust, and the cruel rites of their bloodstained worship, older even than those of the ruined temple, rose before his imagination, until fancy seemed to people the silent wastes before him with those who had once crowded round that circle of misshapen stones which stood out vividly on the verge of the plain.

He felt that nameless fear which such thoughts excite so strongly, that he sought the company of the sentinel whom they had posted to guard their slumbers, and found not one but two at the post.

"Oswy and Anlac! both watching?"

"It was too lonesome for one," said Oswy.

"Have you seen or heard aught amiss?"

"Yes. About an hour ago, there were cries such as men make when they die in torture, smothered by other sounds like the beating of drums, blowing of horns, and I know not what."

"You were surely dreaming?"

"No; it came from yonder circle of stones, and a light like that of a great fire seemed to shine around."

Alfred made no reply; but he remembered that they had talked of the Druidical rites the night before, and thought that the idea had taken such hold upon the minds of his followers as to suggest the sounds to their fancy. Still he watched with them till the first red streak of day appeared in the east.

CHAPTER X. ELFRIC AND ALFRED.

Early in the morning our travellers arose and took their way through an open country which abounded with British and Roman remains; no fewer than three entrenched camps, once fortifying the frontier of the Dobuni, lying within sight or hard by the road, which, skirting the summit of the watershed between the Thames and the Avon, afforded magnificent views.

About an hour after starting they came upon a singular monument of Druidical times, consisting of sixty huge stones arranged in a circular form, with an entrance at the northeast, while a single rock or large stone, the largest of all, stood apart from the circle, as if looking down into the valley beneath.[xix]

"What can be the origin of this circle?" said Alfred.

"It belongs to the old days of heathenesse; before the Welsh were conquered by the Romans, perhaps before our Blessed Lord came into the world, these stones were placed as you now see them," replied Father Cuthbert.

"What purpose could they serve?"

"For their devil worship, I suppose; you see those five stones which stand at some little distance?"

"They are the Five Whispering Knights," said Oswy.

"They are the remains of a cromlech or altar whereon they offered their sons and daughters unto devils, and shed innocent blood, wherefore the Lord brought the Romans upon them."

"But the Romans were idolatrous, too."

"Yet their religion was milder than the one it superseded. Jupiter required no human sacrifices; and even otherwise, God has said that the wicked man is often His sword to avenge Him of His adversaries."

"Oswy looks as if he had a tale to tell."

"Speak out, Oswy, and let us all hear," said the good father.

"Well, then," said Oswy, "these were not once stones at all, but living men—a king, five knights, and sixty soldiers—who came to take Long Compton, the town down there, in the valley; but it so happened that a great enchanter dwelt there, and being out that morning he saw them coming, muttered his spells, and while the king—that stone yonder— was in front looking down on his prey, the five knights all whispering together, and the sixty soldiers behind in a circle, they were all suddenly changed into stone."

They all laughed heartily at this, and leaving the Rholdrwyg Stones, turned aside to the hospitable hall where they ought to have spent the previous night. So delighted was the Thane of Rholdrwyg or Rollrich to receive his guests that he detained them almost by force all that day, and it was only on the morrow that he permitted them to continue their journey.

They joined the Foss Way again after a few miles at Stow on the Wold; the road was so good that they succeeded in reaching Cirencester, the ancient Corinium, that night, a distance of nearly thirty miles. Here they found a considerable population, for the town had been one of great importance, and was still one of the chief cities of southern Mercia, full of the remains of her departed Roman greatness, with shattered column and shapely arch yet diversifying the thatched hovels of the Mercians.

Two more days brought them to Bath, but the old Roman city had been utterly destroyed, and long subsequently the English town had been founded upon its site, so that there seemed no identity between Bath and Aqua Solis, such as prevailed between Cirencester and Corinium.

One day's journey from Bath brought them at eventide within an easy day of Glastonbury, so that they paused in their journey for the last time at a well-known hostelry, chiefly occupied by pilgrims bound for Glastonbury, for the morrow was a high festival, or rather the commencement of one, and Dunstan was expected to conduct the ceremonies in person.

So crowded was the hostelry that Alfred and his revered tutor could only obtain a small chamber for their private accommodation, while their servants were forced to content themselves with such share of the straw of the outbuildings as they could obtain, in company with many others.

It was still early when they stopped at the inn, for one of their horses, which they had purchased by the way, had broken down so completely that they could not well proceed, and they were about to enter a dark and dangerous forest, full of ravenous bears and wolves, which had already cast its shade upon their path.

But this was not an uncommon feature in English travelling of that century, when there were no horses to be hired at the inns, and travellers could only purchase the animals they needed (if there were any to be sold); the forest, too, was reported to be the haunt of freebooters, and men dared to affirm that they were encouraged by the king to prey upon the fraternity at Glastonbury.

Still the dangers of the forest did not deter Alfred, who dearly loved woodland scenery and sport, from strolling therein when their hasty meal had been despatched, weary of the continuous objurgations and smalltalk of the crowded inn.

He had wandered some distance, lost in thought, when all at once he started in some surprise, for the spot on which he was seemed familiar to him, although he had never been in Wessex before.

Yes, he certainly knew the glade, with the fine beech trees surrounding it: where could he have seen it before? All at once he remembered his dream in the ruined temple, and started to discover the secret foreknowledge he had thus possessed.

He wandered up and down the glade till it became dusk, and then shook off the thoughts to which he had been a prey, and started to return to the inn, when, to his dismay, he found he had forgotten in which direction it lay.

While seeking to find the path by which he had entered the glade, he suddenly noticed a beaten track between two huge rocks, which seemed to point in the direction he had come, and yet which he recognised as the path he had been bidden to follow in his dream. He hesitated not, but committed himself to it, while darkness seemed to increase each moment.

He was beginning to fear the dangers of a night in the woods, when he was startled by a sound as of many low voices, and at the same moment became conscious that a light was tinging with red the upper branches of the trees at no little distance, as if proceeding from some fire, hidden by the formation of the ground.

At first he thought that he was in the neighbourhood of outlaws, and tried to retire, but, as in his dream, he felt so strong an impulse to discover the party whom the woods concealed that he persevered.

Suddenly he stopped short, for he had come to the edge of a kind of natural amphitheatre, a deep hollow in the earth, the sides of which were covered with bushes and trees, while the area at the bottom might perhaps have covered a hundred square yards, and was clothed with verdant turf. Not one, but several fires were burning, and around them were reclining small groups of armed men, while some were walking about chatting with each other.

Alfred gazed in much surprise, for the party did not at all realise his conception of a body of freebooters or robbers; they all seemed to wear the same uniform, and to resemble each other in their accoutrements and characteristics; they rather resembled, in short, a detachment of regular forces than a body of men whom chance might have thrown together, or the fortune of predatory war.

While he gazed upon them, two of their number, whose attire was rich and costly, and who seemed to be of higher rank than the rest, perhaps their officers, attracted his attention as they walked near the spot where, clinging to a tree, he overlooked the encampment from above.

One of them was a tall, dark warrior, whose whole demeanour was that of the professional soldier, whose dress was plain yet rich, and who might easily be guessed to be the commander of the party. He was talking earnestly, but in a subdued tone, to his younger companion, whom he seemed to be labouring to convince of the propriety of some course of action.

Alfred watched them eagerly; the form of the younger—for so he appeared by his slender frame—seemed familiar to him, and when at last they turned their faces and walked towards him, the light of a neighbouring fire showed him the face of his brother Elfric.

"My dream!" he mentally exclaimed.

They were evidently talking about some very important subject, and it was also evident that the objections of the younger, whatever they might be, were becoming rapidly overruled, when, as chance, if it were chance, would have it, they paused in their circuit of the little camp just beneath the tree where Alfred was posted.

"You see," said the elder, "that our course is clear, so definitely clear that we have but to do our duty to the king, while we avenge a thousand little insults we have ourselves received from this insolent monk—such insults as warriors wash out with blood."

"Yet he is a churchman, and it would be called utter sacrilege."

"Sacrilege! is a churchman's blood redder than that of layman, and is he not doomed as a traitor by a judgment as righteous as ever English law pronounced! did he not keep Edwy from his throne during the lifetime of the usurper Edred!"

"That was the sentence of the Witan, and you served Edred."

"I did not owe the allegiance of an Englishman to either, being of foreign birth, and so was no traitor; as for the Witan, it is well known Dunstan influenced their decision at the death of the royal Edmund."

"I never heard the assertion before."

"You have many things still to learn; you are but young as yet. But let it pass. Does not his conduct to Queen Elgiva merit death!"

"I think it does. But still not without sentence of law."

"That sentence has been in fact pronounced, for in such cases as these, where the subject is too powerful for the direct action of the law to reach him, the decision of the king and council must pass for law, and they have decided that Dunstan must die, and have left the execution of the sentence—to us."

He did not add that the council in question consisted of the giddy young nobles who had surrounded Edwy from the first, aided by a few hoary sinners whose lives of plunder and rapine had given them a personal hatred of the Church.

Elfric heaved a sigh, and said:

"If so, I suppose I must obey; but I wish I had not been sent on the expedition."

"It is to test your loyalty."

"Then it shall be proved. I have no personal motives of gratitude towards Dunstan."

"Rather the contrary."

"Rather the contrary, as you say. But what sound was that? Surely something stirred the bush!"

"A rabbit or a hare. You are becoming fanciful and timid. Well, you will remember that tomorrow there must be no timidity, no yielding to what some would call conscience, but wise men the scruples of superstition. We shall not reach the monastery till dark, most of the visitors will then have quitted it, and we shall take the old fox in a trap."

"You will not slay him in cold blood!"

"No. I shall bid him follow me to the king, and if he and his resist, as probably they will, then their blood be on their own heads. But surely—"

At that moment a large stone, which Alfred had most inopportunely dislodged, rolled down the bank, and made Elfric, who was in its path, leap aside. Alfred, whose foot had rested upon it, slipped, and for a moment seemed in danger of following the stone, but he had happily time to grasp the tree securely, and by its aid he drew himself back and darted into the wood.

Luckily there was moonlight enough to guide him by the track he had hitherto followed, and he ran forward, dreading nothing so much as to fall into the hands of the friends of his brother, and trusting that he might prevent the execution of the foul deed he had heard meditated. He ran for a long distance before he paused, when he became aware that pursuers were on his track. Luckily his life had been spent so much in the open air that he was capable of great exertion, and could run well. So he resumed his course, although he knew not where it would lead him, and soon had the pleasure of feeling that he was distancing his pursuers. Yet every time he ran over a piece of smooth turf he fancied he could hear them in his rear, and it was with the greatest feeling of relief that he suddenly emerged from the wood upon the Foss Way, and saw the lights of the hostelry at no great distance below him.

His pursuers did not follow him farther, probably unwilling to betray their presence to the neighbourhood, and perhaps utterly unconscious that the intruder upon their peace was possessed of any dangerous secrets, or other than some rustic woodman belated on his homeward way, who would be unable in any degree to interfere with them or to guess their designs.

But it was not till the ardour of his flight had abated, that Alfred could fully realise that his unhappy brother was committed to a deed of scandalous atrocity, and the discovery was hard for him to bear. The strong impression which his dream had made upon him—an impression that he was to be the means of saving his brother from some great sin— came upon him now with greater force than ever, and was of great comfort. The identity of the scenery he had seen in dreamland with the actual scenery he had gone through, made him feel that he was under the special guidance of Providence.

Returning to the inn he sought Father Cuthbert, and found him somewhat uneasy at his long absence, and to him he communicated all that he had seen and heard.

The good father was a man of sound sense but of much affection, and at first he could not credit that the boy he had loved so well, Elfric of Aescendune, should have grown to be the associate of murderers, for such only could either he or Alfred style the agents of Edwy's wrath.

But, once fully convinced, he was equal to the emergency.

"We will not start at once, we should but break down on the road, and defeat our own object. We must rest quietly, and sleep soundly if possible, and start with the earliest dawn. We shall reach Glastonbury by midday, and be able to warn the holy abbot of his danger in good time."

So Alfred was forced to curb his impatience and to try to sleep soundly. Father Cuthbert soon gave good assurance that he was asleep; but the noisy manner in which the assurance was given banished sleep from the eyelids of his anxious pupil. At length he yielded to weariness both of mind and body, and the overwrought brain was still.

He was but little refreshed when he heard Father Cuthbert's morning salutation, "Benedicamus Domino," and could hardly stammer out the customary reply, "Deo gratias."

Every one rose early in those days, and the timely departure of the party from Aescendune excited no special comment. Hundreds of pilgrims were on the road, and Alfred expressed his conviction that there would be force enough at Glastonbury to protect Dunstan, to which Father Cuthbert replied—"If he would accept such protection."

On former days their journey had been frequently impeded by broken bridges and dangerous fords; but as they drew near Glastonbury the presence of a mighty civilising power became manifest. The fields were well tilled, for the possessions for miles around the abbey were let to tenant farmers by the monks, who had first reclaimed them from the wilderness. The farm houses and the abodes of the poor were better constructed, and the streams were all bridged over, while the old Roman road was kept in tolerable repair.

A short distance before they reached the city, the pilgrims, who were a space in advance of the party, came in sight of the towers of the monastery, whereupon they all paused for one moment, and raised the solemn strain then but recently composed—

I. Founded on the Rock of Ages, Salem, city of the blest, Built of living stones most precious, Vision of eternal rest, Angel hands, in love attending, Thee in bridal robes invest. II. Down from God all new descending Thee our joyful eyes behold, Like a bride adorned for spousals, Decked with radiant wealth untold; All thy streets and walls are fashioned, All are bright with purest gold! III. Gates of pearl, for ever open, Welcome there the loved, the lost; Ransomed by their Saviour's merits; This the price their freedom cost: City of eternal refuge, Haven of the tempest-tost. IV. Fierce the blow, and firm the pressure, Which hath polished thus each stone: Well the Mastermind hath fitted To his chosen place each one. When the Architect takes reck'ning, He will count the work His Own. V. Glory be to God, the Father; Glory to th' Eternal Son; Glory to the Blessed Spirit: One in Three, and Three in One. Glory, honour, might, dominion, While eternal ages run. Amen.[xx]

The grand strains seemed to bring assurance of Divine aid to Alfred, and he could but imitate Father Cuthbert, who lifted up his stentorian voice and thundered out in chorus, as they drew near the pilgrims.

Here they left the Foss Way for the side road leading to the monastery, now only a short distance from them.

CHAPTER XI. THE FLIGHT OF DUNSTAN.

It was the day of St. Alban, the protomartyr of England, and the saint was greatly honoured at Glastonbury, where, as we have seen, Dunstan was in residence, and, as a natural consequence, every department of the monastic life was quickened by his presence. The abbey was full of monks who had professed the Benedictine rule, and having but recently been rebuilt, it possessed many improvements hardly yet introduced into English architecture in general. The greater part of the building was of stone, and it was not, in its general features, unlike some of the older colleges at Oxford or Cambridge, although the order of the architecture was, of course, exclusively that of the Saxon period, characterised by the heavy and massive, yet imposing, circular arch.

But upon the church or abbey chapel all the skill of the architect had been concentrated, and it seemed worthy alike of its founder and of its object. Seen upon the morning in question, when the bright summer sun filled every corner with gladsome light, just as the long procession of white-robed priests, and monks in their sombre garb, with their hoods thrown back, were entering for high mass, and the choral psalm arose, it was peculiarly imposing.

The procession had not long entered the church, when the party of pilgrims we have described, closely followed by our friends from Aescendune, entered the quadrangle, and crossed it to the great porch of the church. It was with the greatest difficulty they could enter, for the whole floor of the huge building was crowded with kneeling worshippers. The portion of Scripture appointed for the epistle was being chanted, and the words struck Alfred's ears as he entered—"He pleased God, and was beloved of Him, so that, living among sinners, he was translated."

The words seemed to come upon him with special application to the danger the great abbot was in, and the thought that the martyr's day might be stained by a deed of blood, or, as some might say, hallowed by another martyrdom, added to his agitation.

And now he had gained a position where the high altar was in full view, illuminated by its countless tapers, and fragrant with aromatic odours. There, in the centre of the altar, his face turned to the people as the sequence was ended, and the chanting of the gospel from the rood loft began, stood the celebrant, and Alfred gazed for the first time upon the face of Dunstan, brought out in strong relief by the glare of the artificial light.

He strove earnestly to concentrate his thoughts upon the sacred words. They were from the sixteenth of St. Matthew, beginning at the words:

"Then said Jesus unto His disciples, If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me.

"For whosoever will save his life, shall lose it and whosoever will lose his life for My sake, shall find it."

He could not but feel the strange coincidence that words such as these should come to strengthen him, when he felt he had most need to shelter himself under the shadow of the Cross. The service proceeded, the creed, sanctus, and other choral portions being sung by the whole monastic body in sonorous strains; and for a time Alfred was able to make a virtue of necessity, and to give himself wholly to the solemnity; but when it was over and the procession left the church, he sought an immediate interview with the abbot, in company with Father Cuthbert.

Dunstan had removed his sacerdotal garments, and had returned to his own cell, which only differed in size from the cells of his brethren. The furniture was studiously plain: hard wooden chairs; an unvarnished table; a wooden bedstead, with no bed, and only a loose coverlet of sackcloth; the walls uncovered by tapestry; the floor unfurnished with rushes;—such was the chamber of the man who had ruled England, and still exercised the most unbounded spiritual influence in the land.

There was no ostentation in this; every monk in the monastery lived in similar simplicity. Precious books and manuscripts, deeply laden with gold and colours, were deposited on coarse wooden shelves, while the Benedictine Breviary lay on the table, written by some learned and painstaking scribe, skilful in illumination.

The appearance of the abbot was little changed since we last beheld him; perhaps care had traced a few more lines in his countenance, and his general manner was more prompt and decided, now that danger menaced him, for menace him he knew it did, although he hardly knew from what quarter the bolt would fall.

A lay brother brought him some slight refreshment, the first he had taken during the day.

The humility inculcated by each precept of the order forbade the brother in question to speak until his superior gave him leave to do so; but Dunstan read at once the desire of his subordinate, and said:

"What hast thou to tell me, Brother Osgood?"

"Many people are without, seeking speech of thee."

"This is the case each day; are there any whose business appears pressing?"

"A company has arrived from Aescendune, or some such place in Mercia, and two of the party—a priest and a young layman—seek an immediate interview, saying their business is of life and death."

"Aescendune!—admit them first."

The brother left the cell at once, and soon returned, ushering in Father Cuthbert and Alfred, who saluted the great churchman with all due humility, and waited for him to speak, not without much evident uneasiness; perhaps some little impatience was also manifest.

"Are you of the house of Aescendune, my son?" enquired Dunstan of Alfred. "Methinks I know you by your likeness to your brother Elfric."

"I am the son of Ella, father; we have been sent on pressing business, which is notified by this parchment" (presenting the formal request on the part of the brethren of Aescendune, which was the original cause of their journey) "but we have yet a more pressing matter to bring before you: wicked men seek your life, my father."