“Ealdorman,” said Edwy, impatiently, “why throw up entrenchments? can we not carry theirs by storm? we are all ready, are we not, for a valiant charge?”

“Nay, my lord, we are but ill prepared,” was the reply, “for such desperate measures.  I am not certain they do not outnumber us; even so, we probably excel them in discipline and skill, and have every chance of victory tomorrow, which we should lose by fighting in the dark.”

So Edwy, who did not lack personal courage, and would gladly have ended the short raid then and there, was forced to be governed by wiser heads, and accordingly the bivouacs were made, the fires lighted, and the royal tent pitched upon the slope of a gentle valley, which descended to a brook in the bottom, where the ground rose similarly on the other side, and was crowned by the hostile entrenchment, behind which rose the smoke of the enemy’s fires.  The heads of numerous soldiers, seen over the mound, showed how well they were prepared.

The entrenchment was dug, the mound thrown up, the sentinels posted, and all in so short a space of time that to the uninitiated in the art of war, it would have seemed little short of miraculous; but the discipline of the Danes, who owed their success generally to the skill with which they fortified their camps, had been partially inherited by their adversaries, and the hus-carles were not even all English:  there were many Danes amongst them.

The suppers were soon cooked and eaten, the wine circulated freely, and patriotic songs began to be heard:  but there was one who seemed to have no heart for them—­Elfric.  At the huge fire, which blazed near the royal tent, Edwy sat as master of the feast, and he was in a state of boisterous merriment.  But all Elfric’s efforts could not hide the depression of his spirits, and Edwy, who loved him sincerely—­for the reader has seen that he was quite capable of love—­tried to rouse him from it, anxious that no one should suspect the courage of his favourite.

Once or twice Elfric seemed to make great efforts to overcome this feeling of depression, and partially succeeded in veiling it from all but the observant young king.

At last the feast was over.

“My friends,” said the king, “we must be stirring early in the morning, so we will now disperse for the night.”

They drank a parting cup, then separated, while the king took Elfric’s arm and led him aside.

“Elfric,” said he, “did I not know my friend and most faithful follower, I should suspect that he feared the morrow’s conflict.”

“I cannot help it,” said Elfric; “perhaps I do fear it, yet, had I but my father’s forgiveness, could I but see him once more, I could laugh at the danger.  It is not pain or death I fear, but I long to be where you have been, I would I had gone with you now.”

“So do I.”

“And now I have my forebodings that I shall never hear my father’s forgiveness; and, Edwy, if I die without it, I believe my spirit cannot rest; I shall haunt the spot till the day of doom.”