“Look, Alfgar, and see whether you can see the flag of Wessex floating over the gates; your eyes are better than mine,” said the elder to his companion.

“I can barely see through the driving rain and darkening sky, but I think I discern the royal banner.”

“Then the city yet holds out, and Canute has not arrived.  We are yet in time.”

“The messenger said that their ships could not ascend the river while the west wind blew, and it is blowing hard enough tonight.”

“Well, when they come they may find London a hard nut even for Canute to crack.  The citizens of London are true as steel.”

“See, we are espied, and they man the gates.”

“Doubtless they think Canute is approaching.  Ride rapidly, we shall soon undeceive them.”

They rode within bow shot of the gates, which were closed, and there they paused, for a score of bowmen held their shafts to their ears.  Edmund, for our readers have long recognised him, bade his forces halt, and advanced alone, with Alfgar, holding up his hand in sign of peace.

“What, ho! men of London,” he cried, “do you not recognise Edmund the Etheling?”

A joyous cry of recognition burst forth, the gates were thrown open in a minute, and as Edmund, followed by his train, rode in, cries of welcome and exultation burst forth on all sides, while women and children, sharing the general joy, kissed even the hem of his mantle.

Well they might, for their need was sore.  Canute was near, his ships had been seen entering the Thames, and his determination to take the city, which had so often resisted the Danish arms, had been freely and frankly expressed.

“Ah, well you know me, my countrymen, for a true Englishman!—­one in whose veins your blood flows, and who will be only too happy to fight the Danish wolves at your head.”

The cry, “Long live the Etheling Edmund!” had wakened the city, and the narrow tortuous streets were becoming thronged by the crowd, so that their farther progress threatened to be slow.  Edmund perceived this, and, turning to the captain of the guard, inquired anxiously: 

“How fares the king, my father?”

“They say he is at death’s door,” was the reply.

“Then I may not tarry, good people.  All thanks for your welcome, which I hope I may live to repay, but just now my place is by my father’s side.  I may not now delay till I come to him.”

So the people made way without discontinuing their acclamations, and Edmund and his train rode on till they reached the precincts of St. Paul’s cathedral church.  Night was now coming on apace, amidst showers of rain and hail, and gusts of wind, which caused the wooden spire to rock visibly.  Here and there faint lights twinkled through the open doors, where people could be dimly seen on their knees.

“They pray for the king,” whispered an officer of the guard who rode by the side of the prince.  “The bishop Elfhelm has gone forth with the viaticum.”