It was marvellous to see how the food disappeared, as hand after hand was stretched out to the dishes, in the absence of forks—­a modern invention—­and huge horns of ale helped the meat downwards.

Game, steaks of beef and venison on spits, were handed round.  The choicer joints were indeed reserved for the upper board, but profusion was the rule everywhere throughout the hall, and there was probably not a serf; nay, not even a dog, whose appetite was not fully satisfied before the end of the feast.

The prince seemed thoroughly to have recovered his spirits, somewhat damped perhaps before by his adventure with the wolf; and exerted his talents to make himself agreeable.  He had seen life on an extended scale, young as he was, and his anecdotes of London and the court, if a little wild, were still interesting.  Elfric and Alfred listened to his somewhat random talk, with that respect boys ever pay to those who have seen more of the wide world than themselves—­a respect perhaps heightened by the high rank of their princely guest, who was, however, only a month or two older than Elfric.

As they heard of the marvels of London, and of the court, home and its attractions seemed to become dim by comparison, and Elfric especially longed to share such happiness.

Their father seemed to wish to change the conversation, as he asked the prince whether he had been long in Mercia.

Edwy replied, “Nay, my host; this is almost my first day of perfect freedom, and I only left London, and my uncle the king, a few days back.  Dunstan has gone down to Glastonbury, for which the Saints be thanked, and I am released for a few days from poring over the musty old manuscripts to which he dooms me.”

“It is well, my prince, that you should have a preceptor so well qualified to instruct you in the arts your great ancestor King Alfred so nobly adorned.”

“Ah yes, Alfred,” said Edwy, yawning; “but you know we can’t all be saints or heroes like him:  for my part, I sometimes wish he had never lived.”

The astonished looks of the company seemed to demand further explanation.

“Because it is always, ‘Alfred did this,’ and ‘Alfred did that.’  If I am tired of ‘hic, haec, hoc,’ I am told Alfred was never weary; if I complain of a headache, Dunstan says Alfred never complained of pain or illness, but bore all with heroic fortitude, and all the rest of it.  If I want a better dinner than my respected uncle gives us on fast days in the palace, I am told Alfred never ate anything beyond a handful of parched corn on such days; if I lose my temper, I am told Alfred never lost his; and so on, till I get sick of his name; and here it greets me in the woods of Mercia.”

“I crave pardon, my liege,” said Ella, who hardly knew whether to smile or frown at the sarcastic petulance of his guest, who went on with a sly smile—­“And now old Dunstan does not know where I am.  He left me with a huge pile of books in musty Latin, or crabbed English, and I had to read this and to write that, as if I were no prince, but a scrivener, and had to get my living by my pen; but as soon as he was gone I had a headache, and persuaded my venerable uncle the king, through the physician, that I needed change of air.”