How I thought of those who tithed mint and rue, and all manner of herbs, and passed over justice, mercy, and the love of God.

So, in unavailing complaints, midnight drew on, and we heard the sound of my brother’s horse.

He soon entered the room.  We saw at a glance that he had laboured in vain, and spent his strength for nought.

“No one has seen him,” he said.

“Have you asked many people?” we inquired.

“Yes, scores.  The sheriff, the bishop, the watchmen, the tradesfolk—­no one has seen or heard aught.  I will go again tomorrow.”

“Meanwhile, do the people know what passed at the banquet last night?”

“No; it has all been kept quiet,” was the reply.

We could do no more, and all retired to rest.  I have sat up to say my mattins and finish this diary.  It is now nearly the third hour of the morn, and—­

Monday Night, 23d Nov. 1006.—­

I had written as far as the word “and,” when I was alarmed by a loud cry from the chamber next my own, which was occupied by the Etheling.  I rose, and knocked at the door, but, receiving no answer, opened it and went in.

I saw at once that the prince was delirious; the fever, which I had marked in his eyes and manner, but which he struggled against, had at length overcome his brave spirit.

Just as I entered the room, bearing my torch, he sprang out of bed.

“There is a snake under my pillow.”

I tried to soothe him.

“It is Edric; he is turned into a snake, and is trying to sting me.  Kill him! kill him!”

I got him into bed with some difficulty, and sat by him, after giving him a composing draught—­for I never travel without a few simples at hand, in case of sickness amongst those to whom I minister.

He slept at last, but it was evident to me that exposure and excitement had grievously injured his health, and that he was in danger of prolonged sickness.  Ever and anon he raved in his sleep about Sweyn, Edric, his father, and Alfgar, mixing them up in his mind most strangely:  but the object of his abhorrence was ever Edric, while he spoke of Alfgar, “poor Alfgar!” as a father might speak of a son.

I watched by him all through the night, and in the morning he was evidently too ill to rise.  His mind became clear for a short time, and yet his memory was so confused that he scarcely comprehended where he was, or how he got here.

So my return to Abingdon is indefinitely delayed, for Herstan and my sister both insist on my staying till he is out of danger, if God will; and indeed I know no one else to whose care I could willingly commit him.

We think it best not to let his father or Edric know where he is, for we know how his death would rejoice the latter, and the wish is often father to the action.  A little would turn the scale now.

Herstan has gone into Dorchester again to inquire about Alfgar, and to ascertain whether any action has been taken consequent upon Edmund’s intelligence from Carisbrooke.