The king rose up in his bed, glared fixedly at the prelate, and then shrieked aloud: 

“St. Brice!  St. Brice! art thou come again?  What dost thou glare at me for?  ’Twas not I who defiled thy festival with blood.  It was Edric, Edric!  Why does he not come to answer for his own sin?”

“If he did, I would brain him,” muttered Edmund.

“There! do not glare upon me.  Hast thou brought me the blood of the victims to drink?  Ah! there is Gunhilda.  What right hast thou to complain if I slew thee, which I did not, at least not with my own hands:  thy brother Sweyn has slain thousands.  I did not at least kill my father; I have only disgraced his name, as you will say.

“O Edmund!  Edmund! protect me.”

“My son,” said the bishop, in a deep calm voice, which seemed to still the ravings of the king, “think of thy sins, repent, confess; the Church hath power to loose in her Lord’s name, Who came to save sinners.”

“Yes, father, heed him,” said Edward.  “Father, you are dying, the leech says; you have not a day to live.  Waste not the precious hours.”

The patient sank back upon his bed, and for a few minutes only the sound of his breathing could be heard; the difficulty with which he drew his breath seemed to increase each moment.

The bishop held the crucifix before his eyes.

“Gaze, my son,” said he, “at the emblem of Him who died that thou mightest live, and say, ’O my God, I put Thy most pitiful passion between Thee and my sins!’”

“Yes, father, hearken,” said Edward.

“I bethink me now that Gunhilda clung to the crucifix, and said she was a Christian.  But what of that?  She was a Dane, and they did right in dragging her from it and slaying her.”

“My son, my son, you throw away your salvation!” cried the bishop.

“Father, show him the viaticum,” said Emma.

“It is useless; without repentance and faith ’twould but increase—­” and the prelate paused.  “Let us pray.  It is all we can do.”

And all present knelt round the bed, while the plaintive cry arose from the lips of the prelate, and was echoed from all around: 

“Kyrie eleeson:  Christe eleeson:  kyrie eleeson.”

And so the litany for the dying rolled solemnly along, with its intense burning words of supplication, its deep agony of prayer, its loving earnestness of intercession.  But upon the dying sinner’s ears it fell as an echo of the long, long past; of that day when the litany arose before his coronation at Kingston, and the prophetic curse of Dunstan.

“Listen!” he said.  “I hear the voice of Dunstan.

“Oh, why didst thou lay thy curse upon me?  Did I murder my brother Edward?  Nay, ’twas my cruel mother, who murdered her own husband that she might become queen.  Her sins are visited upon me.  Nay, recall thy curse.  Alas! it is uttered in thunders before the eternal judgment seat.