“My son,” said the abbot, “rest here this night in our poor house; tomorrow we will find you both horses and fitting apparel, and ye shall go meetly to the king, who is the guest of the bishop.”

“I shall not be sorry, father, to see the inside of my chamber,” said the young prince; for he is yet young, although so wise and valiant—­not more than a year or two older than Alfgar.

The compline bell rang.

“I will go with you to thank God first for our deliverance, and to pay my vows to Him,” said Edmund; “then to bed.”

After compline, Edmund went from the chapel to bed.  Alfgar would not retire.  He came to my cell; there he talked with me for a full hour.  His affection moves me greatly.  He has evidently found a real friend in Prince Edmund, who has delivered him from a cruel death, and who wants to attach him permanently to his service.  Meanwhile Alfgar is all haste to return to Aescendune and Ethelgiva, before any further steps are taken.

Saturday, Nov. 22d, 1006.—­

After we had arrayed the Etheling and Alfgar this morning, I decided to accompany them on their road to Dorchester, for it happened that I had arranged to say mass and preach tomorrow at the little church of St. Michael at Clifton, the residence of my sister Bertha and her husband Herstan.  It lies on a cliff over the Thames, on the way to the cathedral city, whence its name, “the town on the cliff.”

So we started, the Etheling, Alfgar, and I, after the chapter mass at nine.  We crossed the fine timber bridge over the Isis, then kept the causeway over the marshes, till, crossing an arm of the main stream, we ascended a hill and passed through the open country.

On the north the country is richly wooded.  There lies the chase of Neweham, abounding in deer, with a few wolves yet lingering in its recesses, and forming sport for the ceorls.

In the neighbourhood of a great monastery the roads are always good, and waggons can travel easily and smoothly from Abingdon to Dorchester.  So, being well mounted, we were only the best part of an hour in reaching Clifton.

The river here makes a sudden bend to the east, after running for some time almost due north, and at the bend the steep cliff rises whereon the little church and my brother Herstan’s hall is built, with a few cottages below and around occupied by his theows.

We went first to the church and offered our devotions.  From the elevated ground whereon it stands, the cathedral of Dorchester and the Synodune hills formed conspicuous objects.

Then we turned to the hall, and met a reception such as warmed the heart.  When we had refreshed ourselves, I had to tell Bertha all the strange events which have recently happened at Aescendune; of the destruction of her old home, but of the well being of all her friends; yes, of all, for we know that he has won the martyr’s crown.

Some natural tears she dropped; but I think she soon came to see all things in their right light, as we try to do.