“Often, indeed, my liege; but those days are gone, perhaps for ever.”

“They had their joys, nevertheless.  There is something in a life of adventure which warms the blood and makes time pass swiftly; my goodwife and I sometimes tire of each other’s company, as I expect Ethelgiva and you will in time.”

“Never!” said Alfgar, so fervently that there was a general smile.

“Well, time will show; meanwhile, how is the new hall at Aescendune getting on, Elfwyn?”

“It will be ready by next spring; then the young people must make it their home.  Our home in the woods has proved a shelter to us through such troublous days that Hilda and I are loath to leave it.  But, meanwhile, they must live with us.”

“And how about the priory?”

“It will be ready before the hall.”

“That is well,” observed the bishop, “and as it should be—­God’s house first, and then man’s.”

“Well, Hermann,” said Edmund, addressing his young friend, whose career in arms he had closely watched since the attack upon the hall at Clifton, “how do you like the prospect of a long peace?”

“A peaceful life has its delights,” replied Hermann, “but war has also its charms.”

“Well, thou hast passed unscathed through five great battles, or at least without any serious wound; but remember all are not so fortunate, and many a poor cripple sighs over Penn, Sherston, Brentford, Otford, or Assingdun.”

“The excitement of war blinds one to the risk.”

“So it should, or there would be no war at all.  What does my father the bishop think of the matter?”

“That wars are necessary evils, only justifiable when fighting, as you, my lord, have done, for home and altar, but they are no true children of the Prince of Peace who delight in bloodshed and strife.”

Edmund pondered.

“And yet I fear I must plead guilty of delighting in a gallant charge.  It stirs the blood, till it flows like fire in the veins.  The feeling is glorious.”

“Yet not one to be encouraged, save when it enables one to perform necessary deeds of daring for some worthy object, such as holy Scripture praises in the heroes of old.”

The conversation now became general.  Elfwyn and Herstan talked of the old days of Dunstan; Alfgar and Hermann of the events of the recent war; the good bishop and Father Cuthbert on ecclesiastical topics; the ladies upon some question of dresses and embroidery for the approaching festivity, which seemed to interest them deeply, when an attendant entered, and approaching the king, whispered a message in his ear.

“What! in this house?  I will not have it.  He knows how hateful his very presence must be.”

“Your sister, the Princess Elgitha?”

“Well, I will see her.  No, I will not.”

“It is too late, Edmund.  You must see me,” said a sweet voice, and a lady, attired in mourning weeds, stood beside him.  “It is but seven months, Edmund, since we lost our father.  Shall his children rend and devour each other?”