“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.