There, by his side, when the tents were pitched the evening before the battle, stood many a brave ealdorman,—­Godwin of Lindsey; Ulfketyl, the hero of the East Angles; Ethelweard, the son of the pious Ethelwine, whom men called the “Friend of God.”  And present at that last banquet were Ednoth, the bishop of Dorchester, and other ecclesiastics, who had come to pray for the host and to succour the dying with ghostly aid.  Well nigh all the great men of England were here.  But Edric supped in their midst.  Their spirits were high that night, and while Edmund drank to their success on the morrow, each man responded with a fervour which augured confidence in that morrow’s issue—­all save the wicked Edric, whose heart seemed far from his words.

The events of that fatal morrow are matter of history.  The armies joined battle.  Victory seemed to favour Edmund.  The Danes were already giving way, when Edric turned and fled, with his whole division, whom he had corrupted.  After that all was disorder amongst the English; but they continued fighting bravely until the moon arose, and they were becoming surrounded on all sides, when, in sheer desperation, they at last gave way.

Edmund would not yield until Alfgar seized the bridle of his horse, and almost by violence caused him to turn his steed, bidding him live for England, for he was its hope.  It was growing dark rapidly, and the darkness alone saved Edmund and the relics of the English army.

With a faithful few, including both Alfgar and Hermann, nearly all of the party wounded, the English king rode sadly from the scene, groaning bitterly in spirit.

“Why did I trust him again?  Why did I trust him?” he kept muttering to himself.

“You did not trust him.  The council overruled you.  I was present,” said Alfgar.

“But I might have resisted.”

And he persisted in his unavailing regret.

It was a sad sight to see the field of battle strewn for miles with the dead and dying, while gangs of plunderers swarmed in all directions.  One sharp encounter with such a party served to warm Edmund’s blood, after which he was a little more cheerful.

But the saddest scene in the flight lay on a gentle eminence, commanding a view of the field, whose deformities night mercifully shrouded from view, although the murmurs of the wounded reached them even there in one long subdued wailing moan.

There, on that little hill, lay bishops and abbots in their sacerdotal apparel.  Where they had met to pray, there they lay in death!  With a deep sigh Edmund recognised Ednoth, bishop of Dorchester, lying stark and stiff in his bloody robes.  A troop of Danish horsemen had surrounded the hill and massacred them all.  The assassins had even hewn Ednoth’s finger off for the episcopal ring.