“How died he?” then said the bishop, folding his hands.

But now the monks bade him fly, and reasoned with and prayed him.  But he bade them save themselves, for that there would be work for them to do among the heathen.

“As for me, I am an old man,” he said, “and I would fain go the same road as the king.”

Still they clung to him, and at last, speaking to each by name, and giving each some message to take to cell or abbey where they must go at his bidding, he commanded them; and so, unwillingly, kissing his hand and receiving his blessing, they went one by one, till he and I and one or two laymen besides were left in the little church.  Then he spoke to the other men, and they went also, and we were alone.

“That is well,” said the bishop; “tell me all, and then do you fly.”

He sat down in his great chair, leaning his head in his hand while I told him all in that quiet place.  Never once was there trembling flash from the great jewel of his ring, that shone in the candlelight, to show how moved he was; but when I had ended, the tears were running down his venerable face, and he said: 

“Now is there truly one more added to the noble army of martyrs, and he is at rest.  Now do you go, my son.”

But I had other thoughts in my mind, and I rose up silently from beside him, saying only:  “Not yet, father,” and I went down the aisle and out into the darkness to Leof.

“See yonder!” said he pointing, and there was a fresh fire not many miles from us.  “I think they scour the country for our bishop.  We have little time.”

“Tell me, Leof,” I said, “have you a mind to live?” for there was somewhat in the man’s weary voice that seemed to say that he and I thought alike.

“None, master, after today’s work, if I may find a brave man or two to die with me.”

“Here is a brave man waiting with a like thought in the church.  Shall you and I die with him?”

“Aye, surely,” said Leof quietly.

“Bide here then,” I said, and took the horses from him.

I mounted mine and rode to the house, where the steward and one or two others watched from the gateway.  I bade the old man call his folk together, and I told them to fly.  Many were already gone, now others went at once.

But a few stayed, and to them I said like words as to Leof.

“Hither will the Danes come presently, but in no great force.  We may beat them back, and if we do, then maybe the bishop will fly.  But we shall more likely die with him.”

“Let us stand by him, come what will,” they answered me in steady voices; “better to die with him and our king.”

They took their arms and gave me a sword, and we left the horses in the stable, for we might even yet need them.  I thought that we could maybe, as I said, beat off the first few Danes, and then that, to save further bloodshed, the bishop would go with us.  And if not, we had done our best.