I could say no more—­it was useless—­but I felt very sick at heart.  After the noon meat I left the palace, and found my brother ready to depart for home.  His interview had been the counterpart of mine.  Neither had he succeeded in convincing the sheriff that there was any danger to be apprehended.

Well, all we can do is to prepare ourselves for the worst.  I find that no tidings have been sent by any authority to the men of this estate to hold themselves in readiness for sudden alarm.  I wonder whether the same remissness prevails elsewhere.  No one expects danger.  The Danes, they say, never fight in winter.

Advent Sunday, 1006.—­

My patient was able to sit up for a short time today, but his weakness is very pitiable to behold, and he dares not leave his room.  He inquired very earnestly after Alfgar, and I found great difficulty in persuading him to commit the matter to God, which is all that we can do; for although the river has been dragged, the country searched, no tidings have yet been obtained, and we can only believe that the poor lad has been secretly murdered and buried, or that he has been sent away out of the country.

“I had a strange dream about him,” said Edmund.  “I thought that it was midnight of Christmas Eve, and that I was attending mass, when, just as the words were sung by the choir, ‘Pax in terra,’ the scene suddenly changed, and I stood in the dark on the chalk hills which overlook the Solent; by my side was a beacon ready laid for firing.  I thought next I saw the Solent covered with the warships of the Danes, who were advancing towards the English shore, and that I tried to fire the beacon, but all in vain, for the wood was wet through, and would not burn.

“Then I had a strange sense of woe and desolation, for my country was in danger, and I could not even warn her.  All at once I heard steps rushing towards me, and Alfgar appeared bearing a lighted torch.  He thrust it into the pile, and it fired at once.  Other beacon fires answered it, and the country was aroused.  Then I awoke.”

Saturday, December 5th, 1006.—­

The week has again been spent mainly at Clifton.  The prince is better, but only able to rise a few hours each day, and I fear a relapse would be fatal.

On Wednesday I visited Abingdon, and had a long conference with the abbot about the neglected warning Edmund had given; but he seemed to think that the beacon fires and the guards placed near the sea coast secure us sufficiently.  Like all the world, he thinks that the Etheling has exaggerated the danger.

I have written a full account of all things to my brother at Aescendune.  Father Adhelm is still there ministering to the flock.

Saturday, December 12th, 1006.—­

The week has passed monotonously enough.  The Etheling is now able to leave his room, but the stormy weather, with its torrents of rain, makes it impossible for him to leave the house.  The river has overflowed its banks; all the country around is like a lake.  We console him by telling him that all has been done which is possible, both to warn the people and learn the fate of Alfgar.  He tries to look contented, but if he knew how little has really been done, and that that little has been in Edric’s hands, he would not be so contented.