“No need whatsoever, if you will first allow us to explain the reasons of our presence here.  We have somewhat startling news from the enemy.”

“The enemy, by my last advices, lies quiet in the Isle of Wight,” said Edric.

“I will not dispute your knowledge, my lord Edric,” replied the Prince, “considering the intimacy you stand on with Sweyn.”

“Intimacy!  I would sooner own intimacy with the Evil One.”

“You might own that, too, without much exaggeration, since the good bishop will bear me witness that he is the father of lies.”

“Edmund, this is unbearable,” said the king.

“Pardon, my father and liege, but truth will out.”

The company sat in amazement, while the hand of Edric played convulsively with the hilt of his dagger; meanwhile Edmund ate, and gave to Alfgar, ere he spake again.

“Stay, Edric,” whispered the king; “thou art my Edric.  I was never false to thee, nor will I be now; did I not, for thy sake, look over the death of Elfhelm of Shrewsbury, and put out the eyes of his sons? canst thou not trust me now?”

Thus strengthened, Edric remained, and uneasy whispers passed around the assembly.

At last Edmund looked up.

“When the flesh is weak through toil and fasting, speech is not eloquent, but now listen, all Englishmen true, and I will speak out.”

He told his tale, how he had conceived suspicions that the Danes intended a winter descent; how he had risked his life (in the exuberance of youthful daring) to ascertain the truth; how, trusting to his knowledge of Carisbrooke, wherein he had spent many pleasant days in his boyhood, he had ventured amongst the Danes as a gleeman, in imitation of Alfred of old; how there he had assisted, unsuspected, at a meeting of the council in the great hall, and heard it decided to invade England, and finally how he had escaped.  And then he continued: 

“And in that council I heard that the Danes had a secret friend in the English army, who ever gave them due warning of our movements, and who caused all the miscarriage of our last campaign.  Stand forth, Edric Streorn, for thou art the man, and my sword shall prove it, if need be.”

“Edmund, thou ravest,” cried the king; “produce thy witnesses.”

“Alfgar, son of Anlaf, answer; whom didst thou espy talking with Sweyn?”

“Edric Streorn.”

“How didst know him?”

“Because he threatened my life on St. Brice’s night, and I had often seen him while dwelling in Mercia.”

“A Dane witnessing against a free-born Englishman?  Can it be endured?” cried Ethelred.  “What, here, my royal guard!—­here! here! your King is insulted—­insulted, and by his son and his son’s minions.”

The guard rushed in, their weapons in their hands.

“Seize my son, the false Edmund.”

“Here I am,” quietly said the hero of the English army, for such he was, although not recognised as such by the government of his father.  “Here I am; what Englishman will bind me?”