"It is I, Elfric!—I, your brother Alfred!"

Elfric stared vacantly, then fell back on the pillow: a moment only passed, and then it was evident that an interval of silence had begun, during which the patient only moaned. The noise from those who were feasting in the hall beneath, which communicated with the gallery by a large staircase, was loud and boisterous as ever.

A step was heard approaching.

Alfred took Oswy by the arm, and they both retired behind the tapestry, which concealed a small recess, where garments were usually suspended.

The heavy step entered the room, and its owner was evidently standing beside the bed gazing upon the couch. There he remained stationary for some minutes, and again left the room. It was not till the last sound had died away that Alfred and Oswy ventured to leave their concealment.

The silence still continued, save that it was sometimes broken by the patient's moans.

"Take and wrap these clothes round him; we must preserve him from the night air;" and they wrapped the blankets around him; then Oswy, who was very strongly built, took the light frame of Elfric in his arms, and they left the room.

One moment of dread suspense—the passage was clear—a minute more would have placed them in safety, when the paroxysm returned upon the unfortunate Elfric.

"Help, Edwy! Redwald, help! Dunstan has seized me, and is bearing me to the fire! I burn! help, I burn!"

Alfred groaned in his agony; the shrieking voice had been uttered just as they passed the staircase leading down to the hall. Up rushed Ragnar, followed by several of his men, and started back in amazement as he beheld Alfred and Oswy with their burden. Alfred drew his sword to dispute the passage, but was overpowered in a moment. Ragnar himself attacked Oswy, who was forced to relinquish his burden. All was lost.

Another moment and Ragnar confronted his prisoners. Elfric had been carried back to his bed. Alfred and Oswy stood before him, their arms bound behind them, in the great hall, while the soldiers retired at a signal a short distance from them.

"What has brought you here?"

"To deliver my brother."

"To share his fate, you mean. Know you into whose hands you have fallen?"

"Yes; into those of my cousin Ragnar."

"Then you know what mercy to expect."

"I came prepared to share my brother's fate."

"And you shall share it. It must be the hand of fate which has placed you both in my power, me, the representative of the rightful lord of Aescendune, dispossessed by your father, and being myself the legitimate heir."

"We do not dispute your title; give my brother his life and liberty, and take all; we have never injured you."

"All would be nothing without vengeance; you appeal in vain to me. Did I wish to spare you I could not; an oath, a fearful oath, binds me, taken to one from whom I derived life, one whose death was far more agonising and lingering than yours shall be."

"Let us at least die together."

"Do you scorn the company of your thrall in death?"

"God forbid!

"Oswy, you have given your life for us; we die in company. God protect my poor mother, my poor childless mother! She will be alone!"

"You shall die together as you desire."

He addressed a few words in an unknown tongue to his men; his face was now pale as death, his lips compressed as of one who has taken a desperate resolution.

"Retire to your brother's chamber again. You will not compel me to use force?"

They retired up the stairs; Ragnar followed, two or three of his men at a respectful distance from him.

They re-entered the chamber; Ragnar followed and stood before them.

"I will grant you all that is in my power; you shall all die together, and you may tend your brother to the last."

"What shall be the manner of our death?" asked Alfred, who was very calm, fearfully calm.

"You will soon discover; my hand shall not be upon you, or red with your blood. Believe me, I am, like you, the victim of stern necessity, although I am the avenger, you the victims."

"You cannot thus deceive yourself, or shake off the guilt of murder; our father's blood is upon you. You will answer for this, for him and for us, at the judgment seat."

"I am willing to do so, if there be a judgment seat whereat to answer. I had a father, too, who was condemned to a lingering death, by thirst, hunger, and madness; I witnessed his agonies; I swore to avenge them. You appeal to the memory of your father, who has perished a victim to avenging justice; I appeal to that of mine. If there be a God, let Him deliver you, and perhaps I will believe in Him. Farewell for ever!"

He closed the door, and, with the aid of his men, securely fastened it on the outside, so that no strength from within could open it; he descended to the hall.

"Warriors," he said, "the moment I predicted has come; I have received a warning that the usurper Edgar already marches against us; tomorrow, at the latest, he will be here; before he arrives we shall be halfway to Wessex. Let every one secure his baggage and his plunder, and let the horses be all got ready for a forced march. We have eaten the last feast that shall ever be eaten in these halls."

A few moments of bustle and confusion followed, and before half-an-hour had expired all was ready, and the men-at-arms from without announced that every horse—their own and those of the thane, to carry their booty, the plunder of the castle—awaited them without.

"Then," said he, "listen, my men, to the final orders. Fire the castle, every portion of it; fire the stables, the barns, the outbuildings. We will leave a pile of blackened embers for Edgar when he comes; the halls where the princely Edwy has feasted shall never be his, or entertain him as a guest."

A loud shout signified the alacrity with which his followers bent themselves to the task; torches flashed in all directions, and in a few moments the flames began to do their destroying work.

An officer addressed Ragnar—"There are three thralls locked up in an outbuilding, shall we leave them to burn?"

"Nay; why should we grudge them their miserable lives; they have done us no harm."

At that moment a loud cry of dire alarm was heard, the trampling of an immense body of horse followed—a rush into the hall already filled with smoke—loud outcries and shrieks from without.

"What is the matter?" cried Ragnar.

"The Mercians are upon us! the Mercians are upon us!"

Ragnar rushed to the gateway, and a sight met his startled eyes he was little prepared to behold.

The clouds had been driven away by a fierce wind, the moon was shining brightly, and revealed a mighty host surrounding the hall on every side. Every horse before the gateway was driven away or seized, every man who had not saved himself by instant retreat had been slain by the advancing host; without orders the majority of his men had repassed the moat, and had already raised the drawbridge against the foe, not without the greatest difficulty.

"Extinguish the fires which you have raised; let each man fight fire— then we will fight the Mercians."

It was high time to fight fire, rather it was too late.

CHAPTER XXIII. "VENGEANCE IS MINE, I WILL REPAY."

When the door was finally closed upon the brothers and their faithful thrall, Alfred did not give way to despair. The words of Ragnar, "If there be a God, let Him deliver you," had sunk deeply into his heart, and had produced precisely the opposite effect to that which his cousin had intended; it seemed as if his cause were thus committed to the great Being in Whose Hand was the disposal of all things; as if His Honour were at stake, Whom the murderer had so impiously defied.

"'If there be a God, let Him deliver you,'" repeated Alfred, and it seemed to him as if a Voice replied, "Is My Arm shortened, that It cannot save?"

But how salvation was to come, and even in what mode danger was to be expected, was unknown to them; nay, was even unguessed. They heard the bustle below, which followed Ragnar's announcement of his intended departure from Aescendune. They heard the mustering of the horses—and at last the conviction forced itself upon them that the foe were about to evacuate the hall. But in that case, how would he inflict his sentence upon his victims?

The dread truth, the suspicion of his real intention, crept upon the minds of both Alfred and Oswy. Elfric yet lay insensible, or seemingly so, upon the bed, lost to all perception of his danger. Alfred sat at the head of the bed, looking with brotherly love at the prostrate form of him for whom he was giving his life; but feeling secretly grateful that there was no painful struggle imminent in his case; that death itself would come unperceived, without torturing forebodings.

It was at this moment that Oswy, who stood by the window, which was strongly barred, but which he had opened, for the night was oppressively warm, caught the faint and distant sound of a mighty host advancing through the forest; at first it was very faint, and he only heard it through the pauses in the storm of sound which attended Ragnar's preparations for departure, but it soon became more distinct, and he turned to Alfred.

"Listen, my lord, they come to our aid; listen, I hear the army of Edgar."

Alfred rushed to the window, the hope of life strong within him; at first he could hear nothing for the noise below, but at length there was a lull in the confusion, and then he heard distinctly the sound of the coming deliverers. Another minute, and he saw the dark lines leaving the shadow of the forest, and descending the hill in serried array, then deploying, as if to surround a foe in stealthy silence; he looked around for the object, and beheld Ragnar's forces all unconscious of their danger, not having heard the approach in their own hasty preparations for departure. Another moment of dread suspense, like that with which the gazer watches the dark thundercloud before the lightning's flash. A moment of dread silence—during which some orders, given loudly below, forced themselves upon him:

"Fire the castle, every portion of it; fire the stables, the barns, the outbuildings; we will leave a pile of blackened ruins for Edgar when he comes; the halls where the princely Edwy has feasted shall never be his, or entertain him as guest."

Meanwhile, the dark forces, unseen by the destroyers, were still surrounding the castle, deploying on all sides to surround it as in a net; for they saw the intention of their victims, and meant to cut off all chance of escape.

But the position of the brothers seemed as perilous as ever—for how could Edgar's troops rescue them if the place were once on fire? Alfred gazed with pallid face upon Oswy, but met only a resigned helpless glance in return.

Yet, even at this moment of awful suspense, a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "Stand still, and see the salvation of God."

"Oswy," he exclaimed, "we shall not die—I feel sure that God will save us!"

"It must be soon then," replied Oswy; "soon, my lord, for they have already set the place on fire, just beneath us; can you not smell the smoke?"

Just at that moment came the war cry of the Mercians, and the charge we have already described.

It was during the following few minutes, while Ragnar and all his men were vainly striving to extinguish the conflagration they had raised— for the dry timber of which the hall was chiefly built had taken fire like matchwood—it was while the friends without were preparing to attack, that a sudden change came over the patient.

"Alfred, my brother!"

Alfred looked round in surprise; consciousness had returned, and the face was calm and possessed as his own.

"Elfric, my dear Elfric!"

"What does all this mean? How came I here? What makes this smoke?"

"We are in danger, great danger; prisoners in our own house, which they have set on fire."

"I remember now—is not this our dear father's room?"

"Yes; we are prisoners in it, they have barred the door upon us."

"But they cannot bar us in: there is another door, Alfred; one my father once pointed out to me, but told me to keep its existence a secret, as it always had been kept. Who are without?"

"The Mercians, Edgar's army, come to deliver us; if we can reach them, we are safe."

"I thought they were our foes, but all seems strange now. Alfred, lift up the tapestry which conceals the recess where dear father's armour hung."

Alfred complied.

"Now, just where the breastplate hung you will find a round knob of wood like a peg."

"Yes, it is here."

"Push it hard—no, harder."

Alfred did so, and a concealed door flew open; he stepped through it with a cry of joy, and found himself on the staircase leading up from the postern gate by which he had entered, just below the closed door which led into the gallery above.

"God be thanked! we are saved—saved. Elfric!

"Oswy, take him in your arms, quick! quick! I lead the way, and will get the boat ready—door open and boat ready."

It was all the work of a moment; they were on the private staircase, carrying Elfric, carefully wrapt up. The smoke had entered even here; the next moment they were at the entrance. Happily the whole attention of Ragnar was concentrated on self preservation.

One more minute, and Elfric was placed in the coracle. The Mercians on the further bank now observed them, and at first, not knowing them, seemed disposed to treat them as foes; when Oswy cried aloud, "Spare your arrows; it is Elfric of Aescendune;" and they crowded to the bank joyfully, for the purpose of the attack was known to all, and now they saw its object placed beyond the reach of further risk of failure.

The coracle touched the further bank; a dozen willing hands assisted them up the slope. And amidst shouts of vociferous joy and triumph they were conducted to King Edgar, who hastened towards the scene with Siward.

"Now, let the castle burn, let it burn," said Oswy.

"Alfred, is it you?" exclaimed the young king; "just escaped from the flames! How came you there? and this is Elfric; you have saved him."

"God has delivered us."

"But you have been the instrument; you must tell me all another time, get him into shelter quickly.

"Here, men, bear him to the priory, while we stay to do our duty here.

"Alfred, you must not linger."

"One favour, my lord and king; show mercy to Ragnar, to Redwald, you know not how sad his story has been."

"Leave that to me; he shall have all he deserves;" and Alfred was forced to be content.

At this moment, aroused by the shouts of joy, Ragnar, forgetting even his danger, rushed to the roof. There he saw a crowd surrounding some object of their joy; in the darkness of the night he could not distinguish more, but the cry, "Long live Alfred of Aescendune!" arose spontaneously from the crowd, just as the brothers departed. Faint with toil as he was, his heart beating wildly with apprehension, he rushed to the chamber through smoke and flame, for the tongues of fire were already licking the staircase. He withdrew the bars, he rushed in, the room was empty.

"It is magic, sorcery, witchcraft," he groaned.

But the remembrance of his last words, of his scornful defiance of God, came back to him, and with it a conviction that he had indeed lifted up his arm against the Holy One. He felt a sickening feeling of horror and despair rush upon him, when loud cries calling him from beneath aroused him.

"We must charge through them; we cannot burn here; we must die fighting sword in hand, it is all that is left."

Not one voice spoke of surrender amongst those fierce warriors, or of seeking mercy.

It was indeed high time, for all efforts to extinguish the flames had proved vain; every part of the castle was on fire; the fiery element streamed from the lower windows, and curled upwards around the towers; it crackled and hissed in its fury, and the atmosphere became unfit to breathe; it was like inhaling flame. Sparks flew about in all directions, dense stifling smoke filled every room. Not a man remained in the hall, when Redwald rushed down the gallery, holding his breath, for the hot air scorched the lungs; when, just as he arrived, the staircase fell with a huge crash, and the flames shot up in his face, igniting hair and beard, and scorching his flesh. He rushed back to the opposite end of the passage, only to meet another blast of fire and smoke—for they had ignited the hall in twenty places at once; they had done their work all too well. He rushed to the room he had left, shut the door for a moment's respite from flame and smoke, and then, springing at the window, strove to tear the bars down, but all in vain.

"There must be some egress. How did they escape? How could they escape?" he cried; and he sought in vain for the exit, for they had closed the door again, and he knew not where to look; in vain he lifted the tapestry, he could not discover the secret; and at last, overpowered by the heat, he sprang again to the window, and drank in deep draughts of fresh cool air to appease the burning feeling in his throat.

Crash! crash! part of the roof had given way, and the whole chamber trembled; then a single tongue of flame shot up through the floor, then another; the door had caught outside. Even in that moment he beheld his men, his faithful followers, madly seeking death from the swords of the foe; they had lowered the drawbridge, and dashed out without a leader.

"Would I were with them!" he cried. "Oh, to die like this!"

"Behold," cried a voice without, "he hath digged and graven a pit, and is fallen himself into the destruction he made for others."

It was Father Swithin, who had observed the face at the window, and who raised the cry which now drew all the enemy to gaze upon him, for they had no longer a foe to destroy.

The flames now filled the room, but still he clung to the window, and thus protracted his torments; his foes, even the stern monk, could but pity him now, so marred and blackened was his visage, so agonised his lineaments; like, as they said, the rude pictures of the lost, where the last judgment was painted on the walls of the churches. Yet he uttered no cry, he had resolved to die bravely; all was lost now. Another moment, and those who watched saw the huge beams which supported the building bend and quiver; then the whole framework collapsed, and with a sound like thunder the roof tumbled in, and the unhappy Ragnar was buried in the ruin; while the flames from his funeral pyre rose to the very heavens, and the smoke blotted the stars from view.

"Even so," said the monk, solemnly, "let Thine enemies perish, O Lord, but let them that love Thee be as the sun, when he goeth forth in his might."

But those were not wanting who could not sympathise with the stern sentiment, remembering better and gentler lessons from the lips of the great Teacher and Master of souls.

"He has passed into the Hands of his God, there let us leave him," said Father Cuthbert, who had just arrived at the moment. "It is not for us to judge a soul which has passed to the judgment seat, and is beyond the sentence of men."

Meanwhile, they had borne Elfric first to the priory, for they judged it not well that he should yet be brought to his mother; they feared the sudden shock. Many of the good monks had studied medicine, for they were in fact the healers both of soul and body throughout the district, and they attended him with assiduous care. They put him to bed, they gave him cordials which soon produced quiet sleep, and watched by him for many hours.

It was not till the day had far advanced that he awoke, greatly refreshed, and saw Father Cuthbert and Alfred standing by him. They had allayed the fever, bound up the wound, which was not in itself dangerous, and he looked more like himself than one could have imagined possible.

And now they thought they might venture to summon the lady Edith; and Alfred broke the intelligence to her, for she knew not the events of the night.

"Mother," he said; "we have news of Elfric, both bad and good, to tell you."

"He lives then," she said; "he lives!"

"Yes, lives, and is near; but he was wounded badly in the battle."

"I must go to him," she said, and arose, forgetting all possible obstacles in a mother's love.

"He is near at hand, in the priory; you will find him much changed, but they say he will do well."

She shook like an aspen leaf, and threw her garments around her with nervous earnestness.

"Come, mother, take my arm."

"O Alfred, may I not come, too?" said little Edgitha.

"Yes, you may come too;" and they left the house.

Elfric heard them approach, and sat up in his bed, Father Cuthbert supporting him with his arm; while another visitor, Edgar himself, stood at the head of the bed, but retired to give place to the mother, as if he felt no stranger could then intrude, when the widow clasped her prodigal to her loving breast.

CHAPTER XXIV. SOW THE WIND, AND REAP THE WHIRLWIND.

When Alfred rebuilt the city of Winchester, after it had been burned by the Danes, he erected a royal palace, which became a favourite retreat of his successors.

Here the unhappy Edwy retired after his defeat, to find consolation in the company of Elgiva. Indeed he needed it. Northumbria had followed the example of Mercia, and acknowledged Edgar, and he had no dominions left north of the Thames, while it was rumoured that worse news might follow.

In an inner chamber of the palace, and remote from intrusion, sat the king and his chosen advisers. It was early in the year 958, a spring day when the sun shone brightly and all things spoke of the coming summer— the songs of the birds, the opening buds, the blossoming orchards.

But peace was banished from those who sat in that council chamber. Edwy was strangely disturbed, his face was flushed, and he bore evidence of the most violent agitation.

"It must come to that at last, my king," exclaimed Cynewulf, "or Wessex will follow the example of Mercia."

"Better lose my crown then and become a subject, with a subject's liberty to love."

"A subject could never marry within the prohibited degree," said a grey-headed counsellor.

"We have messengers from all parts of Wessex, from Kent, from Essex, from Sussex, and they all unite in their demand that you should submit to the Church, and put away (forgive me for repeating their words) your concubine."

"Concubine!" said Edwy, and his cheek flushed, "she is my wife and your queen."

"Pardon me, my liege, I did not make the word my own."

"You should not have dared to repeat it."

"If I dare, my lord, it is for your sake, and for our country, which is dear to us all. Not an Englishman will acknowledge that your connection is lawful; from Exeter to Canterbury the cry is the same—'Let him renounce Elgiva, and we will obey him; but we will not serve a king who does not obey the voice of the Church or the laws of the land.'"

"Laws of the land! The king is above the laws."

"Nay, my lord, he is bound to set the first example of obedience, chief in that as in all things; an example to his people. Remember, my lord, your coronation oath taken at Kingston three years ago."

Edwy flushed. "Is this a subject's language?"

"It is the language of one who loves his king too well to flatter him."

At this moment an usher of the court knocked at the door, and obtaining permission to enter, stated that Archbishop Odo had arrived, and demanded admission to the council.

"I will not see him," said the king.

"My liege," exclaimed Athelwold, the old grey-headed counsellor we have mentioned, "permit one who loves you, as he loved your revered father, to entreat you to cease from this hopeless resistance. If you refuse to see him you are no longer a king."

"Then I will gladly abdicate."

"And become the scorn of Dunstan, and receive a retiring pension from Edgar, and put your hand between his, kneeling humbly and saying 'I am your man.'"

"No, no. Anything rather than that. Death first."

"All this may be averted with timely submission. Elgiva herself would not counsel you to sacrifice all for her."

"O Athelwold. my father, the only one of my father's counsellors who has been faithful to his firstborn, what can I do? She is dearer to me than life."

"But not than honour. You have both erred, both disobeyed the law of the Church, both forgotten the example due from those in high places."

"Tell Odo to enter," exclaimed Edwy.

The archbishop was close at hand, patiently awaiting the answer to his demand, yet determined, in case of a refusal, to take his pastoral staff in his hand and enter the council room, announced or not. A more determined priest had never occupied the primacy, yet he was benevolent as determined, and, as we have mentioned, was known as Odo the Good amongst the poor. Stern and unyielding to the vices of the rich, he was gentle as a parent to the repentant sinner.

He had pronounced, as we have seen, the lesser excommunication,[xxxi] in consequence of Edwy's refusal to put away Elgiva, immediately after the coronation; since which the guilty pair had never communicated at the altar, or even attended mass. Their lives had been practically irreligious, nay idolatrous, for they had been gods to each other.

And now, in the full pomp of the archiepiscopal attire, with the mitre of St. Augustine on his head and the crozier in his hand, Odo advanced, like one who felt his divine mission, to the centre of the room. His cross bearer and other attendants remained in the antechamber.

"What dost thou seek, rude priest?" said Edwy.

"I am come in the Name of Him Whose laws thou hast broken, and speak to thee as the Baptist to Herod. Put away this woman, for it is not lawful for thee to have her."

"And would I could reply to thee as the holy fox Dunstan once informed me Herod replied to the insolent Baptist, and send thine head on a charger to Elgiva."

"My lord! my liege! my king! Remember his sacred office," remonstrated the counsellors.

"Peace, my lords. His threats or his blandishments would alike fail to move me. The blood of Englishmen slain in civil war—if indeed any are found to fight for an excommunicate king—is that which I seek to avert.

"In the Name of my Master, Whom thou hast defied, O king, I offer thee thy choice. Thou must put away thy concubine, or thou shalt sustain the greater excommunication, when it will become unlawful for Christian people even to speak with thee, or wish thee God speed, lest they be partakers of thy evil deeds."

"My lord, you must yield," whispered Cynewulf.

"Son of the noble Edmund, thou must save thy father's name from disgrace."

"I cannot, will not, do Elgiva this foul wrong. I tell thee, priest, that if thy benediction has never been pronounced upon our union, we are man and wife before heaven."

"I await your answer," said Odo. "Am I to understand you choose the fearful penalty of excommunication?"

"Nay! nay! he does not; he cannot," cried the counsellors. "Your holiness!—father!—in the king's name we yield!"

"You are all cowards and traitors! Let him do what he will, I cannot yield."

"Then, my lord king, I must proceed," said Odo. "You have not only acted wickedly in this matter, but you have misgoverned the people committed to your charge, and broken every clause of your coronation oath. First, you have not given the Church of God peace, or preserved her from molestation, but have yourself ravaged her lands, and even slain her servants with the sword; one, specially honoured of God, you sought to slay, sending that wicked man, who has been called by fire to his judgment, to execute your impious will."

"That holy fox Dunstan! Would Redwald had slain him!" muttered Edwy.

"Secondly," continued Odo, not heeding the interruption, "so far from preventing thefts and fraud in all manner of men, you have maintained notorious oppressors amongst your officers, and in your own person you have broken the oath; for did you not even rob your aged grandmother, and consume her substance in riotous living?"

"What could the old woman do with it all?"

"Thirdly, you have not maintained justice in your judicial proceedings, but have spent all your time, like Rehoboam of old, with the young and giddy, and in chastising your people with scorpions."

"Would I had a scorpion to chastise you! This is unbearable.

"My lords and counsellors, have you not a word to say for me?"

"Alas!" said Athelwold, "it is all too true; but give up Elgiva now, and all will be well!"

"It will be at least the beginning of reformation," said Odo.

"And the end, I suppose," said Edwy, "will be that I shall shave my head like a monk, banquet sumptuously upon herbs and water, spend three-fourths of the day singing psalms through my nose, wear a hair shirt, look as starved as a weasel, and at last, after sundry combats with the devil, pinch his nose, and go off to heaven in all the odour of sanctity. Go and preach all this to Edgar; I am not fool enough to listen to it. You have got him to be your obedient slave and vassal; you have bought him, body and soul, and the price has been Mercia, and now you want to add Wessex. Well, I wish you joy of him, and him of you all; for my part, if I could do it, I would restore the worship of Odin and Thor, and offer you priests as bloody sacrifices to him: I would!"

"Peace, my lord and king! peace! this is horrible." said Athelwold.

"Horrible!" said another. "He is possessed. My lord Odo, you had better exorcise him."

But Edwy had given way—he was young—and burst into a passionate fit of weeping, his royal dignity all forgotten.

"Give him time! give him time, father!" said they all.

"One day; he must then submit, or I must do my duty; I have no choice— none," replied the archbishop.

And the council sadly broke up; but Athelwold sought a private interview with Elgiva.

It was the evening of the same day, and the fair Elgiva sat alone in her apartment, into which the westering sun was casting his last beams of liquid light; tears had stained her cheeks and reddened her eyes, but she looked beautiful as ever, like the poet's or painter's conception of the goddess of love. Around her were numerous evidences of a woman's delicate tastes, of tastes too in advance of her day. The harp, which Edwy had given her the day of their inauspicious union, stood in one corner of the apartment; richly ornamented manuscripts lay scattered about—not, as usual, legends of the saints, and breviaries, but the writings of the heathen poets, especially those who sang most of love: for she was learned in such lore.

At last the well-known step was heard approaching, and her heart beat violently. Edwy entered, his face bearing the traces of his mental struggle; he threw himself down upon a couch, and did not speak for some few moments. She arose and stood beside him.

"Edwy, my lord, you are ill at ease."

"I am indeed, Elgiva; oh! if you knew what I have had to endure this day!"

"I know it all, my Edwy; you cannot sacrifice your Elgiva, but she can sacrifice herself."

"Elgiva! what do you mean?"

"You have to choose between your country and your wife; she has made the choice for you."

Here she strove violently to repress her emotion.

"Elgiva! you shall never go—never, never—it will break my heart."

"It will break mine; but better hearts should break than that civil war should desolate our country, or that you should be dethroned."

"No more of this, Elgiva; you shall not go, I swear it! come weal or woe. Are we not man and wife? Have we not ever been faithful to each other?"

"But this dreadful Church, my Edwy, which crushes men's affections and rules their intellects with a giant's strength more fearful than the fabled hammer of Thor. It crushed the sweet mythology of old, with all that ministered to love, and substituted the shaveling, the nun, the monk; it has no sympathy with poor hearts like ours; it is remorseless, as though it never knew pity or fear. You must yield, my Edwy! we must yield!"

"I cannot," he said; "we will fly the throne together."

"But where would you go? this Church is everywhere; who would receive an excommunicate man?"

"I cannot help it, Elgiva; say no more, it maddens me. Talk of our early days, before this dark shadow fell upon us."

She took up her harp, as if, like David, she could thereby soothe the perturbed spirit; but its sweet sounds woke no answer in his breast, and so the night came upon them—night upon the earth, night upon their souls.

Early in the morning she rose, strong in a woman's affection, while Edwy yet slept, and hastily arrayed herself; she looked around at her poor household gods, at the harp, at the many tokens of his love.

"It is for him!" she said. She imprinted her last kiss on his sleeping forehead, she gazed upon him with fond, fond love; love had been her all, her heaven: and then she opened the door noiselessly.

Athelwold waited without.

"Well done, noble girl!" he said; "thou keepest thy word right faithfully."

She strove to speak, but could not; her pale bloodless lips would not frame the words. Silently they descended the stairs; the dawn reddened the sky; a horse with a lady's equipments waited without, and a guide.

The old thane slipped a purse of gold into her hands.

"You will need it," he said. "Where are you going? you have not told us."

"It is better none should know," she said; "I will decide my route when without the city."

They never heard of her again.[xxxii]

When Edwy awoke and found her gone he was at first frantic, and sent messengers in all directions to bring her back; but when one after another came back unsuccessful, he accepted the heroic sacrifice and submitted.

Wessex, therefore, remained faithful to him, at least for a time, but Mercia was utterly lost; and Edgar was recognised as the lawful king north of the Thames, by all parties; friends and foes, even by Edwy himself.

CHAPTER XXV. "FOR EVER WITH THE LORD."

Many months had passed away since the destruction of the hall of Aescendune and the death of the unhappy Ragnar, and the spring of 958 had well-nigh ended. During the interval, a long and hard winter had grievously tried the shattered constitution of Elfric. He had recovered from the fever and the effects of his wound in a few weeks, yet only partially recovered, for the severe shock had permanently injured his once strong health, and ominous symptoms showed themselves early in the winter. His breathing became oppressed, he complained of pains in the chest, and seemed to suffer after any exertion.

These symptoms continued to increase in gravity, until his friends were reluctantly compelled to recognise the symptoms of that insidious disease, so often fatal in our English climate, which we now call consumption.

It was long before they would admit as much; but when they saw how acutely he suffered in the cold frosts; how he, who had once been foremost in every manly exercise, was compelled to forego the hunt, and to allow his brother to traverse the woods and enjoy the pleasures of the chase without him; how he sought the fireside and shivered at the least draught; how a dry painful cough continually shook his frame, they could no longer disguise the fact that his days on earth might be very soon ended.

There was one fact which astonished them. Although he had returned with avidity to all the devotional habits in which he had been trained, yet he always expressed himself unfit to receive the Holy Communion, and delayed to make that formal confession of his sins, which the religious habits of the age imposed on every penitent.

Once or twice his fond mother, anxious for his spiritual welfare, pressed this duty upon him; and Alfred, whom he loved, as well he might, most dearly, urged the same thing, yet he always evaded the subject, or, when pressed, replied that he fully meant to do so; in short, it was a matter of daily preparation, but he could not come to be shriven yet.

When the winter at last yielded, and the bright spring sun spoke of the resurrection, when Lent was over, they hoped at least to see him make his Easter communion, and their evident anxiety upon the subject at last brought from him the avowal of the motives which actuated his conduct.

It was Easter Eve, and Alfred had enticed him out to enjoy the balmy air of a bright April afternoon. Close by the path they took, the hall was rapidly rising to more than its former beauty, for not only had the theows and ceorls all shown great alacrity in the work, but all the neighbouring thanes had lent their aid.

"It will be more beautiful than ever," said Alfred, "but not quite so homelike. Still, when you come of age, Elfric, it will be a happy home for you."

"It will never be my home, Alfred."

"You must not speak so despondently. The bright springtide will soon restore all your former health and vigour."

"No, Alfred, no; the only home I look for is one where my poor shattered frame will indeed recover its vigour, but it will not be the vigour or beauty of this world. Do you remember the lines Father Cuthbert taught us the other night?

"'Oh, how glorious and resplendent, Fragile body, shalt thou be, When endued with so much beauty, Full of health, and strong and free, Full of vigour, full of pleasure. That shall last eternally.'

"It will not be of earth, though, my brother."

Alfred was silent; his emotions threatened to overcome him. He could not bear to think that he should lose Elfric, although the conviction was gradually forcing itself upon them all.

"Alfred," continued the patient, "it is of no use deceiving ourselves. I have often thought it hard to leave this beautiful world, for it is beautiful after all, and to leave you who have almost given your life for me, and dear mother, little Edgitha, and Father Cuthbert; but God's Will must be done, and what He wills must be best for us. No; this bright Easter tide is the last I shall see on earth; but did not Father Cuthbert say that heaven is an eternal Easter?"

So the repentant prodigal spoke, according to the lessons the Church had taught him. Superstitious in many points that Church of our forefathers may have been, yet how much living faith had its home therein will never be fully known till the judgment.

"And when I look at that castle," Elfric continued, "our own hall of Aescendune, rising from its ashes, I picture to myself how you will marry some day and be happy there; how our dear mother will see your children growing up around her knee, and teach them as she taught you and me; how, perhaps, you will name one after me, and there shall be another Elfric, gay and happy as the old one, but, I hope, ten times as good; and you will not let him go to court, I am sure, Alfred."

Alfred did not answer; he could not command his composure.

"And when you all come to the priory church on Sundays, and Father Cuthbert, or whoever shall come after him, sings the mass, you will remember me and breathe my name in your prayers when they say the memento for the faithful dead; and again, there shall be little children learning their paters and their sweet little prayers, as you and I learned them at our mother's knee: and you will show them my tomb, where I shall rest with dear father, and perhaps my story may be a warning to them. But you must never forget to show them how brotherly love was stronger than death when the old hall was burnt.

"After all," he continued, "our separation won't be long, the longest day comes to an end, and a thousand years are with Him as one day. We shall all be united at last—father, mother, Alfred, Edgitha, Elfric. Do you not hear the Easter bells?"

They retraced their steps to the priory church for the services of Easter Eve.

"And one thing more, dear Alfred; you think me a strange penitent, that I am long, very long, before I make my confession. You do not know how I sigh for Communion; it is three years since I communicated, nearly four. But, Alfred, there is one who tried to stop me when I began going downward, downward, and I feel as if I must have his forgiveness before I can communicate, and it is to him I want to make my last confession. You know whom I mean; he is in England now and near."

"I do indeed."

"Now you know my secret, let us go into church."

Oh, how sweetly those Easter psalms and lessons spoke to Alfred and Elfric that night; how sweetly the tidings of a risen Saviour sounded in their ears. Easter joy was joy indeed. The very heavens seemed brighter that night, the moon—the Paschal moon—seemed to gladden the earth and render it a Paradise, like that happy Eden of old times, before sin entered its holy seclusion.

Easter tide was over, and Ascension drew near, but the sweet month of May had done little to restore health to poor Elfric. He had scarcely ever had a day free from pain. His eye was brighter than ever, but his attenuated face told a sad tale of the decay of the vital power.

From the time that Alfred knew how his brother yearned for Dunstan's forgiveness, and that he would be shriven by none but him, he had sought to accomplish his wish. He heard that Dunstan had returned from abroad, and was about to be consecrated Bishop of Worcester, and to be their own diocesan, and he sought an early opportunity of seeing him.

At last, but not until after Dunstan's consecration, he gained the opportunity, not without much delay; for Dunstan was sometimes in Worcester, sometimes in London, which had thrown off Edwy's authority, and submitted, with all Essex, to Edgar; sometimes ordaining, sometimes confirming, sometimes assisting Edgar in the government; and he was, like all other great men, very inaccessible.

At last Alfred learned that he would be in Worcester by a certain day, and he started at once for that city. He arrived there after a tedious journey; the roads were very difficult, and when he reached the city he heard the cathedral bells, and went at once to the high mass, for it was a festival. There he saw Dunstan as he had seen him before at Glastonbury, at the altar, amidst all the solemn pomp in which our ancestors robed the sacred office.

Immediately after the service he repaired to the palace, and put in his name. Numbers, like himself, were awaiting an audience, but only a few minutes had passed ere an usher came into the antechamber and informed him that Dunstan requested his immediate presence.

He followed the usher amidst the envy of many who had the prospect of a long detention ere they could obtain the same favour, and soon he had clasped Dunstan's hand and knelt for his blessing.

"Nay! rise up, my son, it is thine: Deus benedicat et custodiat te, in omnibus viis tuis. Thinkest thou, my son, thy name has been forgotten in my poor prayers? God made thee His instrument, but thou wast a very very willing one; and now, my son, wherein can I serve thee? Thou hast but to speak."

Thus encouraged, Alfred told all his tale, and Dunstan listened with much emotion.

"Yet two days and I will be with you at Aescendune. Go back and comfort thy brother; he shall indeed have my forgiveness, and happy shall I be as an ambassador of Christ to fulfil the blessed office of restoring the lost sheep to the fold, the prodigal to his Heavenly Father."

When Alfred returned to Aescendune he found Elfric eagerly awaiting him; he had not been so well in the absence of his brother, and every one saw symptoms of the coming end.

Still he seemed so happy when Alfred delivered his message that every one remarked it, and that evening he sat up later than usual, listening as Father Cuthbert read for the hundredth time his favourite story from King Alfred's Anglo-Saxon version of the Gospels, the parable of the prodigal son, which had filled his mind on the night after the battle; then he spoke to his mother about past days, before a cloud came between him and his home; and talked of his father, and of the little incidents of early youth. Always loving, he was more so than usual that night, as if he felt time was short in which to show a son's love.

That night his mother came, as she always came, when he was asleep, to his chamber to gaze upon him, when she was struck by the difficulty of his breathing; she felt alarmed when she saw the struggles he seemed to make for breath, and saw the damp sweat upon his brow, so she called Alfred.

Alfred saw at once that his brother was seriously worse, and summoned Father Cuthbert, who no sooner gazed upon him than he exclaimed that the end was near.

During all that night he breathed heavily and with difficulty, as if each breath would be the last. Towards morning, however, he rallied, and immediate danger seemed gone, although only for a short time.

He sat up for the last time that day. It was a lovely day in May, and in the heat of the day he seemed to drink in the sweet atmosphere, as it came gently through the open window, laden with the scents of a hundred flowers. Often his lips moved as if in prayer, and sometimes he spoke to his brother, and asked when Dunstan would come; but he was not equal to prolonged conversation.

At length one of the ceorls came riding in to say that the Bishop, with his retinue, was approaching the village, and Father Cuthbert went out to meet him. The impatient anxiety of poor Elfric became painful to witness.

"He is coming, Elfric! he is coming!" said Alfred from the window. "I see him near; see! he stops to salute Father Cuthbert, whom he knew years ago; I must go down to receive him.

"Mother! You stay with Elfric."

A sound as of many feet; another moment, a firm step was heard upon the stairs, and Dunstan entered the room.

He advanced to the bed, while all present stood in reverent silence, and gazed upon the patient with a look of such affection as a father might bestow upon a dying son as he took the weak nerveless hand.

Elfric looked round with a mute appeal which they all comprehended, and left him alone with Dunstan.

"Father, pardon me!" he said.

"Thou askest pardon of me, my son—of me, a sinner like thyself; I cannot tell thee how freely I give it thee; and now, my son, unburden thyself before thy God, for never was it known that one pleaded to Him and was cast out."

When, after an interval, Dunstan summoned the lady Edith and Alfred back into the room, a look cf such calm, placid composure, such satisfied happiness, sat upon his worn face, that they never forgot it.

"Surely," thought they, "such is the expression the blessed will wear in heaven."

And then, in their presence, Dunstan administered the Blessed Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ to the happy penitent; it was the first Communion which he had willingly made since he first left home, a bright happy boy of fifteen; and words would fail to describe the deep faith and loving penitence with which he gathered his dying strength to receive the Holy Mysteries.

And then Dunstan administered the last of all earthly rites—the holy anointing;[xxxiii] while amidst their tears the mourners yet thought of Him Who vouchsafed to be anointed before He sanctified the grave to be a bed of hope to His people.

"Art thou happy now, my son?" said Dunstan, when all was over.

"Happy indeed! happy! yes, so happy!"

They were almost the last words he said, until an hour had passed and the sun had set, leaving the bright clouds suffused in rich purple, when he sat up in the bed.

"Mother! Alfred!" he said, "do you hear that music? Many are singing; surely that was father's voice. Oh! how bright!"

He fell back, and Dunstan began the solemn commendatory prayer, for he saw the last moment was come.

"Go forth, O Christian soul, from this world, in the name of God the Father Who hath created thee, of God the Son Who hath redeemed thee, of God the Holy Ghost Who hath been poured out upon thee; and may thy abode be this day in peace, in the heavenly Sion, through Jesus Christ thy Lord."

It was over! Over that brief but eventful life! Over all the bright hopes which had centred on him in this world; but the battle was won, and the eternal victory gained.

We have little more to add to our tale; the remainder is matter of history. The real fate of the unhappy Elgiva is not known, for the legend which represents her as suffering a violent death at the hands of the partisans of Edgar or Odo rests upon no solid foundation, but is repugnant to actual facts of history. Let us hope that she found the only real consolation in that religion she had hitherto, unhappily, despised, but which may perhaps have come to her aid in adversity.

The unhappy Edwy sank from bad to worse. When Elgiva was gone he seemed to have nothing to live for; he yielded himself up to riotous living to drown care, while his government became worse and worse. Alas, he never repented, so far as we can learn, and the following year he died at Gloucester—some said of a broken heart, others of a broken constitution—in the twentieth year only of his age.

Poor unhappy Edwy the Fair! Yet he had been his own worst enemy. Well has it been written:

"Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes; but know thou that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment."

Edgar succeeded to the throne, and all England acknowledged him as lord; while under Dunstan's wise administration the land enjoyed peace and plenty unexampled in Anglo-Saxon annals. Such was Edgar's power, that more than three thousand vessels kept the coast in safety, and eight tributary kings did him homage.

Alfred became in due course Thane of Aescendune, and his widowed mother lived to rejoice in his filial care many a long year, while the dependants and serfs blessed his name as they had once blessed that of his father.

"The boy is the father of the man" it has been well said, and it was not less true than usual in this case. A bright pure boyhood ushered in a manhood of healthful vigour and bright intellect.

Children grew up around him after his happy marriage with Alftrude, the daughter of the thane of Rollrich. The eldest boy was named Elfric, and was bright and brave as the Elfric of old. Need we say he never went to court, although Edgar would willingly have numbered him in the royal household. Truly, indeed, were fulfilled the words which the Elfric of old had spoken on that Easter eve. To his namesake, and to all that younger generation, the memory of the uncle they had never seen was surrounded by a mysterious halo of light and love; and when they said their prayers around his tomb, it seemed as if he were still one of themselves—sharing their earthly joys and sorrows.

And here we must leave them—time passing sweetly on, the current of their lives flowing softly and gently to the mighty ocean of eternity:

"Where the faded flower shall freshen, Freshen never more to fade; Where the shaded sky shall brighten, Brighten never more to shade." Bonar.

THE END.

i For authorities for his various statements the Author must beg to refer his readers to the notes at the end of the volume.

ii Homilies in the Anglo-Saxon Church

"The mass priest, on Sundays and mass days, shall speak the sense of the Gospel to the people in English, and of the Paternoster, and of the Creed, as often as he can, for the inciting of the people to know their belief, and to retain their Christianity. Let the teacher take heed of what the prophet says, 'They are dumb dogs, and cannot bark.' We ought to bark and preach to laymen, lest they should be lost through ignorance. Christ in His gospel says of unlearned teachers, 'If the blind lead the blind, they both fall into the ditch.' The teacher is blind that hath no book learning, and he misleads the laity through his ignorance. Thus are you to be aware of this, as your duty requires."— 23d Canon of Elfric, about A.D. 957.

Elfric was then only a private monk in the abbey of Ahingdon, and perhaps composed these canons for the use of Wulfstan, Bishop of Dorchester, with the assistance of the abbot, Ethelwold. They commence "Aelfricus, humilis frater, venerabili Episcopo Wulfsino, salutem in Domino." Others think this "Wulfsinus" was the Bishop of Sherborne of that name. Elfric became eventually Archbishop of Canterbury, A.D. 995-1005, dying at an advanced age. No other English name before the Conquest is so famous in literature.

iii Services of the Church.

"It concerns mass priests, and all God's servants, to keep their churches employed with God's service. Let them sing therein the seven-tide songs that are appointed them, as the Synod earnestly requires—that is, the uht song (matins); the prime song (seven A.M.); the undern song (terce, nine A.M.); the midday song (sext); the noon song (nones, three P.M.); the even song (six P.M.); the seventh or night song (compline, nine P.M.)"—19th Canon of Elfric.

It is not to be supposed that the laity either were expected to attend, or could attend, all these services, which were strictly kept in monastic bodies; but it would appear that mass, and sometimes matins and evensong, or else compline, were generally frequented. And these latter would be, as represented in the text, the ordinary services in private chapels.

iv Battle of Brunanburgh.

In this famous battle, the English, under their warlike king, defeated a most threatening combination of foes; Anlaf, the Danish prince, having united his forces to those of Constantine, King of the Scots, and the Britons, or Welsh of Strathclyde and Cambria. So proud were the English of the victory, that their writers break into poetry when they come to that portion of their annals. Such is the case with the writer of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, from whom the following verses are abridged. They have been already partially quoted in the text.

Here Athelstane king, Of earls the lord, To warriors the ring-giver, Glory world-long Had won in the strife, By edge of the sword, At Brunanburgh. The offspring of Edward, The departed king, Cleaving the shields. Struck down the brave. Such was their valour, Worthy of their sires, That oft in the strife They shielded the land 'Gainst every foe. The Scottish chieftains, The warriors of the Danes, Pierced through their mail, Lay dead on the field. The field was red With warriors' blood, What time the sun, Uprising at morn, The candle of God, Ran her course through the heavens; Till red in the west She sank to her rest. Through the live-long day Fought the people of Wessex, Unshrinking from toil, While Mercian men, Hurled darts by their side. Fated to die Their ships brought the Danes, Five kings and seven earls, All men of renown, And Scots without number Lay dead on the field. Constantine, hoary warrior, Had small cause to boast. Young in the fight, Mangled and torn, Lay his son on the plain. Nor Anlaf the Dane With wreck of his troops, Could vaunt of the war Of the clashing of spears. Or the crossing of swords, with the offspring of Edward. The Northmen departed In their mailed barks, Sorrowing much; while the two brothers, The King and the Etheling, To Wessex returned, Leaving behind The corpses of foes To the beak of the raven, The eagle and kite, And the wolf of the wood.

The Chronicle simply adds, "A.D. 937.—This year King Athelstan, and the Etheling Edmund, his brother, led a force to Brimanburgh, end there fought against Anlaf, and, Christ helping them, they slew five kings and seven earls."

v Murder of Edmund.

A certain robber named Leofa, whom Edmund had banished for his crimes, returning after six years' absence, totally unexpected, was sitting, on the feast of St. Augustine, the apostle of the English, and first Archbishop of Canterbury, among the royal guests at Pucklechurch, for on this day the English were wont to regale, in commemoration of their first preacher; by chance, too, he was placed near a nobleman, whom the king had condescended to make his guest. This, while the others were eagerly carousing, was perceived by the king alone; when, hurried with indignation, and impelled by fate, he leaped from the table, caught the robber by the hair, and dragged him to the floor; but he, secretly drawing a dagger from its sheath, plunged it with all his force into the breast of the king as he lay upon him. Dying of the wound, he gave rise over the whole kingdom to many fictions concerning his decease. The robber was shortly torn limb from limb by the attendants who rushed in, though he wounded some of them ere they could accomplish their purpose. St. Dunstan, at that time Abbot of Glastonbury, had foreseen his ignoble end, being fully persuaded of it from the gesticulations and insolent mockery of a devil dancing before him. Wherefore, hastening to court at full speed, he received intelligence of the transaction on the road. By common consent, then, it was determined that his body should be brought to Glastonbury, and there magnificently buried in the northern part of the tower. That such had been his intention, through his singular regard for the abbot, was evident from particular circumstances. The village, also, where he was murdered, was made a offering for the dead, that the spot, which had witnessed his fall, might ever after minister aid to his soul,—William of Malmesbury, B, ii. e. 7, Bohn's Edition.

vi A. D. 556—Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.

vii Wulfstan, and the See of Dorchester.

When Athelstane was dead, the Danes, both in Northumberland and Mercia, revolted against the English rule, and made Anlaf their king. Archbishop Wulfstan, then of York, sided with them, perhaps being himself of Danish blood. The kingdom was eventually divided between Edmund and Aulaf, until the death of the latter. When Edred ascended the throne—after the murder of Edmund, who had, before his death, repossessed himself of the whole sovereignty—the wise men of Northumberland, with Wulfstan at their head, swore submission to him, but in 948 rebelled and chose for their king Eric of Denmark. Edred marched at once against them, and subdued the rebellion with great vigour, not to say riqour. He threw the archbishop into prison at Jedburgh in Bernicia. After a time he was released, but only upon the condition of banishment from Northumbria, and he was made Bishop of Dorchester, a place familiar to the tourist on the Thames, famed for the noble abbey church which still exists, and has been grandly restored.

Although Dorchester is now only a village, it derives its origin from a period so remote that it is lost in the mist of ages. It was probably a British village under the name Cair Dauri, the camp on the waters; and coins of Cunobelin, or Cassivellaunus, have been found in good preservation. Bede mentions it as a Roman station, and Richard of Cirencester marks it as such in the xviii. Iter, under the name Durocina.

Its bishopric was founded by Birinus, the apostle of the West Saxons; and the present bishoprics of Winchester, Salisbury, Exeter, Bath and Wells, Worcester and Hereford, were successively taken from it, after which it still extended from the Thames to the Humber.

Suffering grievously from the ravages of the Danes, it became a small town, and it suffered again grievously at the Conquest, when the inhabited houses were reduced by the Norman ravages from 172 to 100, and perhaps the inhabitants were reduced in proportion. In consequence, Remigius, the first Norman bishop, removed the see to Lincoln, because Dorchester, on account of its size and small population, did not suit his ideas, as John of Brompton observes. From this period its decline was rapid, in spite of its famous abbey, which Remigius partially erected with the stones from the bishop's palace.

viii Anglo-Saxon Literature.

In the age of Bede, the eighth century, Britain was distinguished for its learning; but the Danish invasions caused the rapid decline of its renown.

The churches and monasteries, where alone learning flourished, and which were the only libraries and schools, were the first objects of the hatred of the ferocious pagans; and, in consequence, when Alfred came to the throne, as he tells us in his own words—"South of the Humber there were few priests who could understand the meaning of their common prayers, or translate a line of Latin into English; so few, that in Wessex there was not one." Alfred set himself diligently to work to correct this evil. Nearly all the books in existence in England were in Latin, and it was a "great" library which contained fifty copies of these. There was a great objection to the use of the vernacular in the Holy Scriptures, as tending to degrade them by its uncouth jargon; but the Venerable Bede had rendered the Gospel of St. John into the Anglo-Saxon, together with other extracts from holy Scripture; and there were versions of the Psalter in the vulgar tongue, very rude and uncouth; for ancient translators generally imagined a translation could only be faithful which placed all the words of the vulgar tongue in the same relative positions as the corresponding words in the original. An Anglo-Saxon translation upon this plan is extant.

Alfred had taught himself Latin by translating: there were few vocabularies, and only the crabbed grammar of old Priscian. Shaking himself free from the trammels we have enumerated, he invited learned men from abroad, such as his biographer, Asser, and together they attempted a complete version of the Bible. Some writers suppose the project was nearly completed, others, that it was interrupted by his early death. Still, translations were multiplied of the sacred writings, and the rubrics show that they were read, as described in the text, upon the Sundays and festivals. From that time down to the days of Wickliffe, England can boast of such versions of the sacred Word as can hardly be paralleled in Europe.

The other works we have mentioned were also translated by or for Alfred. "The Chronicle of Orosius," a history of the world by a Spaniard of Seville; "The History of the Venerable Bede;" "The Consolations of Philosophy," by Boethius; "Narratives from Ancient Mythology;" "The Confessions of St. Augustine;" "The Pastoral Instructions of St. Gregory;" and his "Dialogue," form portions of the works of this greatest of kings, and true father of his people. His "Apologues," imitated from Aesop, are unfortunately lost.

ix The Court of Edred.

All the early chroniclers appear to take a similar view of the character and court of Edred. William of Malmesbury says—"The king devoted his life to God, and to St. Dunstan, by whose admonition he bore with patience his frequent bodily pains, prolonged his prayers, and made his palace altogether the school of virtue." But although pious, he was by no means wanting in manly energy, as was shown by his vigorous and successful campaign in Northumbria, on the occasion of the attempt to set Eric, son of Harold, on the throne of Northumbria. The angelic apparition to St. Dunstan, mentioned in chapter VII, is told by nearly all the early historians, but with varying details. According to many, it occurred while Dunstan was hastening to the aid of Edred. The exigencies of the tale required a slightly different treatment of the legend.

x Confession in the Anglo-Saxon Church.

"On the week next before holy night shall every one go to his shrift (i.e. confessor), and his shrift shall shrive him in such a manner as his deeds which he hath done require and he shall charge all that belong to his district that if any of them have discord with any, he make peace with him; if any one will not be brought to this, then he shall not shrive him; [but] then he shall inform the bishop, that he may convert him to what is right, if he he willing to belong to God: then all contentions and disputes shall cease, and if there be any one of them that hath taken offence at another, then shall they be reconciled, that they may the more freely say in the Lord's Prayer, 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us,' etc. And having thus purified their minds, let them enter upon the holy fast-tide, and cleanse themselves by satisfaction against holy Easter, for this satisfaction is as it were a second baptism. As in Baptism the sins before committed are forgiven, so, by satisfaction, are the sins committed after Baptism." Theodulf's Canons, A.D. 994 (Canon 36).

It is evident, says Johnson, that "holy night" means "lenten night," as the context shows.

xi Incense in the Anglo-Saxon Church.

Dr. Rock, in his "Hierurgia Anglicans," states that incense was used at the Gospel. In vol. i., quoting from Ven. Bede, he writes—"Conveniunt omnes in ecclesium B. Petri ipse (Ceolfridas Abbas) thure incenso, et dicto oratione, ad altare pacem dat omnibus, stans in gradibus, thuribulum habens in menu." In Leofric's Missal is a form for the blessing of incense. Theodore's Penitential also affixes a penance to its wilful or careless destruction. Ven. Bede on his deathbed gave away incense amongst his little parting presents, as his disciple, Cuthbert, relates. Amongst the furniture of the larger Anglo-Saxon churches was a huge censer hanging from the roof, which emitted fumes throughout the mass.

"Hic quoque thuribulum, capitellis undique cinctum, Pendet de summo, fumosa foramina pandens: De quibus ambrosia spirabunt thura Sabaea, Quando sacerdotes missas offerre jubentur." Alcuini Opera, B. ii,, p. 550.

xii Psalm xxi. 3.

xiii "All were indignant at the shameless deed, and murmured amongst themselves,"—William of Malmesbury.

xiv The Welsh were driven from Exeter by King Athelstane; before that time, Englishmen and Welsh had inhabited it with equal rights.

xv The earliest inhabitants of Ireland were called Scots.

xvi Legends about St. Dunstan.

"It is a great pity," says Mr. Freeman, in his valuable "Old English History," "that so many strange stories are told about him [Dunstan], because people are apt to think of those stories and not of his real actions." This has indeed been the case to such an extent that his talents, as a statesman and as an ecclesiastical legislator, are almost unknown to many who are very familiar with the story of his seizing the devil by the nose with a pair of tongs. Sir Francis Palgrave supposes that St. Dunstan's seclusion at the time had led him to believe, like so many solitaries, that he was attacked in person by the fiend, and that he related his visions, which were accepted as absolute facts by his credulous hearers. Hence the author has assumed the currency of some of these marvellous legends in his tale, and has introduced a later one into the text of the present chapter. But the whole life of the saint, as related by his monkish biographers, is literally full of such legends, some terrible, some ludicrous. One of the most remarkable deserves mention, bearing, as it does, upon our tale. It is said that he learned that Edwy was dead, and that the devils were about to carry off his soul in triumph, when, falling to fervent prayer, he obtained his release. A most curious colloquy between the abbot and the devils on this subject may be found in Osberne's "Life of Dunstan."

xvii The Benedictine Rule.

St. Benedict, the founder of the great Benedictine Order, was born in the neighbourhood of Nursia, a city of Italy, about A.D. 480. Sent to study at Rome, he was shocked at the vices of his fellow students, ran away from the city, and shut himself up in a hermitage, where he resigned himself to a life of the strictest austerity. Three years he spent in a cave near Subiaco, about forty miles from Rome, where he was so removed from society that he lost all account of time. He did not, however, lead an idle life of self contemplation; he instructed the shepherds of he neighbourhood, and such were the results of his instruction that his fame spread widely, until, the abbot of a neighbouring monastery dying, the brethren almost compelled him to become their superior, but, not liking the reforms he introduced, subsequently endeavoured to poison him, whereupon he returned to his cave, where, as St. Gregory says, "he dwelt with himself" and became more celebrated than ever. After this the number of his disciples increased so greatly, that, emerging from his solitude, he built twelve monasteries, in each of which he placed twelve monks under a superior, finally laying the foundation of the great monastery of Monte Cassino, which has ever since been regarded as the central institution of the order.

Here was drawn up the famous Benedictine rule, which was far more adapted than any other code to prevent the cloister from becoming the abode of idleness or lascivious ease. To the three vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, was added the obligation of manual labour, the brethren being required to work with their hands at least seven hours daily. The profession for life was preceded by a novitiate of one year, during which the rule was deeply studied by the novice, that the life vow might not be taken without due consideration. The colour of the habit was usually dark, hence the brethren were called the Black Monks.

St. Benedict died of a fever, which he caught in ministering to the poor, on the eve of Passion Sunday, A.D. 543. Before his death, the houses of the order were to be found in all parts of Europe, and by the ninth century it had become general throughout the Church, almost superseding all other orders.

xviii The Roman Roads.

Roman roads were thus constructed: Two shallow trenches were dug parallel to each other, marking the breadth of the proposed road; the loose earth was removed till a solid foundation was reached, and above this were laid four distinct strata—the first of small broken stones, the second of rubble, the third of fragments of bricks or pottery, and the fourth the pavement, composed of large blocks of solid stone, so joined as to present a perfectly even surface. Regular footpaths were raised on each side, and covered with gravel. Milestones divided them accurately. Mountains were pierced by cuttings or tunnels, and arches thrown over valleys or streams. Upon these roads, posting houses existed at intervals of six miles, each provided with forty horses, so that journeys of more than 150 miles were sometimes accomplished in one day.

From the arrival of our uncivilised anceators, these magnificent roads were left to ruin and decay, and sometimes became the quarry whence the thane or baron drew stones for his castle; but they still formed the channels of communication for centuries. Henry of Huntingdon (circa 1154) mentions the Icknield Street, from east to west; the Eringe, or Ermine Street, from south to north; the Watling Street, from southeast to northwest; and the Foss Way, from northeast to southwest, as the four principal highways of Britain in his day. Once ruined, no communications so perfect existed until these days of railroads.

xix The Rollright Stones.

These stones are still to be seen in the parish of Great Rollright near Chipping Norton, Oxon, anciently Rollrich or Rholdrwygg. They lie on the edge of an old Roman trackway, well defined, which extends along the watershed between Thames and Avon. The writer has himself heard from the rustics of the neighbourhood the explanation given by Oswy, while that put in the mouth of Father Cuthbert is the opinion of the learned.

xx For this new translation of Urbs beata the author is indebted to his friend the Rev. Gerald Moultrie.

xxi The reader will remember the strong feeling of animosity then existing between seculars and regulars.

xxii This demoniacal laughter is one of the many legends about St. Dunstan.

xxiii See Preface.

xxiv Ruined British Cities.

The resistance of the Britons (or Welsh) to their Saxon (or English) foes was so determined, that, as in all similar cases, it increased the miseries of the conquered. In Gaul the conquered Celts united with the Franks to make one people; in Spain they united with the Goths; but the conquerors of Britain came from that portion of Germany which had been untouched by Roman valour or civilisation, and consequently there was no disposition to unite with their unhappy victims, but the war became one of extermination. Long and bravely did the unhappy Welsh struggle. After a hundred years of warfare they still possessed the whole extent of the western coast, from the wall of Autoninus to the extreme promontory of Cornwall; and the principal cities of the inland territory still maintained the resistance. The fields of battle, says Gibbon, might be traced in almost every district by the monuments of bones; the fragments of falling towers were stained by blood, the Britons were massacred ruthlessly to the last man in the conquered towns, without distinction of age or sex, as in Anderida. Whole territories returned to desolation; the district between the Tyne and Tees, for example, to the state of a savage and solitary forest. The wolves, which Roman authorities describe as nonexistent in England, again peopled those dreary wastes; and from the soft civilisation of Rome the inhabitants of the land fell back to the barbarous manners and customs of the shepherds and hunters of the German forests. Nor did the independent Britons, who had taken refuge finally in Wales, or Devon and Cornwall, fare much better. Separated by their foes from the rest of mankind, they returned to that state of barbarism from which they had emerged, and became a scandal at last to the growing civilisation of their English foes.

Under these circumstances the Saxons or English (the Saxons founded the kingdoms of Wessex and Essex; the Jutes, Kent; the Angles all the others. The predominance of the latter caused the term English to become the general appellation.) cared little to inhabit the cities they conquered; they left them to utter desolation, as in the case described in the text, until a period came when, as in the case of the first English assaults upon Exeter and the west country, they no longer destroyed, but appropriated, while they spared the conquered.

xxv Seaton in Devonshire.

xxvi Elgiva or Aelgifu, signifies fairy gift.

Xxvii

The gate of hell stands open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the upper skies— In this the toil, in this the labour lies.—Dryden.

xxviii Valhalla.

Valhalla or Waihalla was the mythical Scandinavian Olympus, the celestial locality where Odin and Edris dwelt with the happy dead who had fallen in battle, and who had been conducted thither by the fair Valkyries. Here they passed the days in fighting and hunting alternately, being restored sound in body for the banquet each night, where they drank mead from the skulls of the foes they had vanquished in battle. Such was the heaven which commended itself to those fierce warriors.

xxix The parish priests were commonly called "Mass-Thanes"

xxx "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth, and believeth in Me, shall never die."

It was not the usual English custom, in those days, to bury the dead in coffins, still it was often done, in the case of the great, from the earliest days of Christianity. For instance, a stone coffin, supposed to contain the dust of the fierce Offa, who died A. D. 796, was dug up, when more than a thousand years had passed away, in the year 1836, at Hemel-Hempstead, with the name Offa rudely carved upon it. The earliest mention of churchyards in English antiquities is in the canons called the "Excerptions of Ecgbriht," A.D. 740, when Cuthbert was Archbishop of Canterbury; and here the word "atria" is used, which may refer to the outbuildings or porticoes of a church.

xxxi The Greater and Lesser Excommunications.

The lesser excommunication excluded men from the participation of the Eucharist and the prayers of the faithful, but did not necessarily expel them from the Church. The greater excommunication was far more dreadful in its operation. It was not lawful to pray, speak, or eat, with the excommunicate (Canons of Ecgbright). No meat might be given into their hands even in charity, although it might be laid before them on the ground. Those who sheltered them incurred a heavy "were gild," and endangered the loss of their estates; and finally, in case of obstinacy, outlawry and banishment followed.

—King Canute's Laws Ecclesiastical.

xxxii Disappearance of Elgiva.

The writer has already in the preface stated his reasons for rejecting the usual sad story about the fate of the hapless Elgiva. The other story, that she was seized by Archbishop Odo, branded on the face, and sent to Ireland, as Mr. Freeman observes, rests on no good authority; all that is certainly known is that she disappeared.

At the time commonly assigued to these events, Dunstan was still in Flanders; yet he is generally credited with the atrocities by modern writers, even as if he had been proved guilty after a formal trial. His return probably took place about the time occupied by the action of the last chapter, when the partition of the kingdom had already occurred.

xxxiii The last Anointing.

The priest shall also have oil hallowed, separately, for children, and for sick men; and solemnly anoint the sick in their beds. Some sick men are full of vain fears, so as not to consent to the being anointed. Now we will tell you how God's Apostle Jacob hath instructed us in this point; he thus speaks to the faithful: "If any of you be afflicted, let him pray for himself with an even mind, and praise his Lord. If any be sick among you, let him fetch the mass priests of the congregation, and let them sing over him, and pray for him, and anoint him with oil in the Name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith shall heal the sick; and the Lord shall raise him up: and if he be in sins they shall be forgiven him. Confess your sins among yourselves, pray for yourselves among yourselves, that ye be healed." Thus spake Jacob the Apostle concerning the unction of the sick. But the sick man, before his anointing, shall with inward heart confess his sins to the priest, if he hath any for which he hath not made satisfaction, according to what the Apostle before taught: and he must not be anointed, unless he request it, and make his confession. If he were before sinful and careless, let him then confess, and repent, and do alms before his death, that he may not be adjudged to hell, but obtain the Divine mercy.

Such is Johnson's version of the 32d canon of Elfric, in which he has preserved closely Elfric's translation, or rather paraphrase, of the passage in St. James. The name James was not then in use, the Latin Jacobus was rendered Jacob.—Johnson's English Canons, A.D. 957, 32.

THE END