And now he turned from the battlements to his own chamber, but on the way he paused, for he passed the door of the late thane’s room, where poor Elfric lay.  He passed the sentinel and entered.  The unhappy boy was extended on the bed, in a raging fever; ever and anon he called piteously upon his father, then he cried out that Dunstan was pursuing him, driving him into the pit, then he cried—­“Father, I did not murder thee; not I, thy son! nay, I always loved thee in my heart.  Who is laughing? it is not Dunstan; break his chamber open, slay him:  is a monk’s blood redder than a peasant’s?  O Elgiva hast thou slain my father?  See, I am all on fire; it is thy doing.  Edwy, my king, Dunstan is burning me:  save me!”

Then there was a long pause, and Redwald or Ragnar as we may now call him stood over his unhappy cousin.  The fair head lay back on the pillow, with its profusion of golden locks; the face was red and fiery, the eyes weak and bloodshot.

“Water! water!  I burn!” he said.

There was no cooling medicine to alleviate the burning throat, no gentle hand to smooth the pillow, no mother to render the sweet offices of maternal love, no father to whisper forgiveness to the dying boy.

“Better he should die thus,” said Ragnar, “since I cannot spare him without breaking my oath to the dead.”

Then he left the room hastily, as if he feared his own resolution.  The sentinel looked imploringly at him, as the cries of the revellers came from below.

“Go!” said Ragnar, “join thy companions; no sentinel is required here.  Go and feast; I will come and join you.”

So he tried to drown his new-born pity in wine.

At a late hour of the day, Alfred and his attendants arrived, bringing news of the coming succour to Father Cuthbert and the other friends who awaited him with much anxiety.  They had contrived to account for his absence to the lady Edith, from whom they thought it necessary to hide the true state of affairs.

But everything tended to increase Alfred’s feverish anxiety about his brother.  The relieving force could not arrive for hours; meanwhile he knew not what to do.  No tidings were heard:  Father Swithin had failed and Elfric might perhaps even now be dead.

So Alfred, taking counsel only of his own brave, loving heart, left the priory in the dusk, attended by the faithful Oswy, and walked towards his former home.  The night was dark and cloudy, the moon had not yet arisen, and they were close upon the hall ere they saw its form looming though the darkness.  Neither spoke, but they paused before the drawbridge and listened.

Sounds of uproarious mirth arose from within; Danish war songs, shouting and cheering; the whole body of the invaders were evidently feasting and revelling with that excess, of which in their leisure moments they were so capable.

“It is well!” said Alfred; and they walked round the exterior of the moat, marking the brightly lighted hall and the unguarded look of the place; yet not wholly unguarded, for they saw the figure of a man outlined against a bright patch of sky, pacing the leaded roof, evidently on guard.