It was a long time before either of us was composed enough to say much, but when we had a little recovered, the abbot who had brought them to my rooms introduced a tall young man in gleeman’s garb, as Edmund the Etheling.

At length we all sat down to supper, but talked so much we could eat little, and I soon learned all the news Alfgar had to tell.  His tale is wonderful; he has been indeed delivered from the mouth of the lion, nay, from the jaws of the fierce lion; but I must set down all things in order.

The one thing which delights me most is the way in which his faith has stood the hard hard test to which it has been put.

But my dear nephew Bertric, Saint Bertric we must assuredly call him, oh how it will lighten the grief of his parents and sister to know how gloriously he died for Christ!  One could envy him his crown.

And then how delighted Ethelgiva will be to learn not only that Alfgar is alive, but to hear how true and brave he has been.

But when all these congratulations were over, and we had learned all that Alfgar had to tell, there was evidently something on the mind of the prince.

“Alfgar and I have a very important duty to perform,” he said.

I waited, and he proceeded.

“There has been grievous treachery in our ranks.  Edric Streorn has sold us to the Danes.”

“I feared as much,” said I, sadly.

“I learned it at Carisbrooke, and am now on my way to Dorchester, where my royal father has arrived, or will arrive tomorrow.  I should have gone there at once, but Alfgar learned you were here, and would come.  Besides, we need your help to fit us for appearing at court.”

And, in truth, their habiliments were not very royal.

Well, Abingdon is a town of great resources, wherein all things meet may be found.

“We will to the tradesmen tomorrow,” I said, “and fit you for the presence.”

“I have yet heavier news to unfold,” Edmund added, very seriously.  “The Danes purpose a winter campaign in the heart of the land, hoping to take us unawares.”

“Now the saints forbid!” said I.

“Even so; but they are not all with us.  St. Brice is against us.”

I sighed, and so did they.  The very remembrance of that day is sickening.

“We have heard,” said the abbot, “that the king will arrive tomorrow at Dorchester; we will send you thither in the morning.  Meanwhile, my sons, you do not eat and drink as I would have you.  Remember you need to sustain exhausted nature.”

That was indeed true.  They had travelled fast, and had fasted by the way, of necessity.

“Well, Alfgar, we will tomorrow to the king,” said Edmund, after they had eaten and drunken; “he must surely listen to us now.”

“He appears to love this wicked Edric,” said the abbot sorrowfully.

“Far better than his own flesh and blood,” replied Edmund.