He lay very, very quiet, hoping that the light would not come near him, and he trembled every time it bent its course that way; but at length his fears seemed about to be realised—­it drew near, and he saw the face of a hideous looking hag, dressed in coarse and vile garments, who held a bloody dagger in the right hand, and kept the left in a kind of bag, tied to her person, in which she had evidently accumulated great store.  Her eyes were roaming about, until the light suddenly was reflected from the poor lad’s brilliant accoutrements, and she advanced towards him.

He groaned, and sank backwards, and her hand was upon the dagger, while she cast such a look as the fabled vampire might cast upon her destined victim, loving gold much, but perhaps blood most, when all at once she turned and fled.

Elfric knew not what had saved him; when voices fell upon his ear, and the baying of a dog.

“Which way has that hag fled?  Pursue her, she murders the wounded.”

The sound of rushing feet was heard, and Elfric felt that help was near, yet leaving him, and he cried aloud, “Help! help! for the love of God.”

One delayed in his course, and came and stood over the prostrate form.  It was a monk, for the boy recognised the Benedictine habit, and his heart sank within him as he remembered how pitilessly he had helped to drive that habit from Glastonbury.

“Art thou grievously wounded, my son?”

“I feel faint, even unto death, with loss of blood.  Oh! remove me, and bear me home; if thou art a man of God leave me not here to perish in my sins.”

The piteous appeal went to the heart of the monk, and he knelt down, and by the aid of a small lamp, examined the wounds of the sufferer.

“Thou mayst yet live, my son,” he said; “tell me where is thy home; is it in Mercia?”

“It is! it is!  My home is Aescendune; it is not far from here.”

“Aescendune—­knowest thou Father Cuthbert?”

“I do indeed; he was my tutor, once my spiritual father.”

“Thy name?”

“Elfric, son of the thane Ella.”

The monk started, then raised a loud cry, which speedily brought two or three men in the dress of thralls (theows) to his side.

“She will murder no more, father; the dog overtook her, and held her till we came; she was red with blood, and we knocked her down; Oswy here brained her with his club.”

“It is well—­she deserved her fate; but, Oswy, look at this face.”

“St. Wilfred preserve us!” cried the man “it is the young lord.  He is not dying, is he?  She hadn’t hurt him—­the she-wolf?”

“No, we were just in time, and only just in time; we must carry him home to his father.”

The monk had started for the expected scene of battle, intent on doing good, with a small party of the thralls of Aescendune, just after Edwy had left the hall; consequently, he knew nothing of the death of the thane or the subsequent events.  Oh, how sweetly his words fell upon Elfric’s ears, “Carry him home to his father.”