The Pageant of England/Alfred the King

PRING moved in the beech-woods. Quick air, ringing with the thrushes' brave song, played fragrant through the boughs of gay green and silver, and set the sunlight dancing wildly over the gold of the daffodils and the wet jewelled violets. A woman came with glad music in her walk. The dark dress, moulded close, showed her slight as a lad, but her face was all womanly and wistful. She knelt and her hair gleamed from her hood: singing to herself, she sought the flowers.

So a horseman found her, a man of huge body and limb, a man of splendour. He was all clad in a dazzling byrnie of enlaced rings of steel. His steel helmet flamed with two wings of a golden eagle. He was worthy of it. From a wind-burnt face of grim jaw, grey eyes flashed as his own steel, keen and fierce.

She started up at his sound, but he was already upon her, and she had no strength to flee. She stood before him, her flower-laden bosom all trembling, her lips parted and pale. He looked the lithe body over, the desperate, drawn white face; then his fierce eyes fastened on her eyes, that were grown darker than the violets and dim.

“Whose woman art thou?”

“No man's,” she said faintly.

The Dane laughed. “That fault is lightly cured. What name and whence?”

“I am Morwenna, the daughter of Caradoc, out of Wintonceastre.”

“And how fares it in Wintonceastre?

“There is no fear, Dane.”

“No more than in thy shivering bosom, Morwenna,” he laughed. “Is there food?”

“Great store.”

“Then will we take the town by storm, and again the widows shall wail in the white ash of Wintonceastre. The raven is fain for red flesh. Well for thee thou art maid, with no weans nor man to mourn.”

She made courage out of despair, crying: “Beware of our King!”

“Ha, is there bold blood in that slim body? The better for me. So Morwenna came seeking flowers to deck her prettiness?”

“What harm to thee?”

“Nay, none, white brow. I would have thee so, thy bosom fragrant of those dark jewels and gold.”

“Let me go my way then,” she said, quivering.

“Ay, flutter as the eagle strikes. Rolf, son of Ragnar, never had ruth for man nor woman. Thou art my plunder, maiden Morwenna.” The weight of his hand fell on her slight shoulder,

She cried out and tried to escape. “Nay, but let me go, I pray thee, i' the Virgin's name. Nay, nay, it is evil. Ah, let me be! Indeed” the word broke in a scream as his fierce grasp bit into her flesh. Screaming like a hare in the jaws of the hound, and as helpless too for pain and terror, she was drawn to him, while from her nerveless hands and her bosom the flowers fell in a bright fragrant stream. He saw the hideous anguish of her eyes and laughed and caught her up to the saddle. Her strength woke and she struggled against his breast: “What wrong—what wrong have I done thee?”

“Every maid asks that of man,” he laughed, and crushed her to silence in his hard, knotted strength. Then exultant for this noble victory, “Aoi!” he shouted, and the woods gave back the sound, “Aoi! Rolf, Ragnar's son, Wulfs son! Aoi!” and he rode off with his prey.

On a bare down you stand now, and see Winchester nestling close about the river, silver-grey college and cathedral sedate and comely side by side, and beyond the dark valley, in slow curves, like the muscles of a man's chest, the hills rise dull, lustreless green to the vague grey horizon. On that side too, as where you stand, there are but small scarce companies of trees stark against the sun. But the Dane rode down through the dappled light of close woodland, and his horse crushed a brown carpet of empty nuts, and the scent of the beech was poignant. If through the gay green thicket he caught a glimpse of the town, it was but a tiny muddle of houses, just born anew after its last storm, inside the fosse and white circling rampart. You come down to the valley and close upon the hospitable square tower of St. Cross strike the old highway. That track was centuries old when the Dane rode by. He crashed through a hazel thicket, where now the refectory stands, and made the river side.

The girl lay in his arm, still enough, stunned of spirit, nerveless and dumb. Her slight grace was bent at the will of his hand, her head fell back and swayed, and strands of gold were breaking about her temples and her white neck. But even so, conquered and bereft of hope, her wide eyes were intent upon him, with something sacred glowing in their dark mystery. The Dane looked down at her, and his laugh rang cruel.

On the egg-shaped land between the twin streams of the river stood clean timbers of a new stockade, and out of it rose joyful noise and copious smoke, and the air was tainted with heavy odours of roasting meat. “Ay, thou shalt feast fat now, Morwenna,” the Dane laughed, and set his horse at the lucid, grey-green water. With a roar of his name and a coarse joke for the lounging guard he clattered into camp. There were no tents nor any shelter at all; the huge mail-shirted men lay bare to earth and sky: but the camp was rich. Droves of horses and cattle it had, rude piles of fodder and household gear, and weeping women bound for slaves. He flung Morwenna down, and with skilful sailor hands lashed her to the rest; he took his dagger, and cut his mark out of her dress, jesting careless the while to careless comrades; but her violet dark eyes saw only him. Laughing, he left her for his horse; and when that more valuable beast was put at ease he sought one of the circles, where half an ox sputtered and smoked over a flaring fire.

He found music and rejoicing. The huge fighting men lay at their ease, munching dried fish for a whet to the coming feast. In the midst a bearded harper sang. If hard faring or age had not bowed his strength he would have been of a proud presence, and for all the piteous blinking eyelids, that told of failing sight, his face was noble yet. For certain he could sing. His voice rang deep and strong to a strain that set the fierce eyes flashing and strong limbs a-quiver. Now the whole throng moved with a dull clash of steel, and more and more gathered eager to hear. It was a new saga.

The grip of the great story held them close: they swayed to each thrill of it, and though it was long and their meat grew savoury and twilight darkened, no man could break the spell. The firelight cast strange, quivering, tawny light on their steel, and the warrior throng lay quick-breathed, gazing at that crouching harper with his miserable blinking eyelids, the master of them all. When he made an end there was tense silence awhile, then a roar of praise, and they did him boisterous honour before the smoking carcass was taken off the fire, and fresh, fat skins of ale were brought. The best of the chine was the harper's in that rude feast, and each man must cut a juicy strip of his own share and cast it into the harper's lap, and yield the harper first draught of his horn. But he fell far behind the race, and before long they were mocking him with rough kindliness for a man of no stomach. When the flood of ale began to work and talk grew wild and foul he edged timidly away, and curled himself up, apart by the cattle, alone, before the red embers of a deserted fire.

Louder the din of the orgie rang, and evil songs came harsh and grim to the doomed women. The most of them huddled together seeking some comfort of their common womanhood, but some, sitting erect in their bonds and calm of bosom, gazed with dry eyes at their masters' growing madness. It was one of these, Morwenna, who saw the harper uncoil his long body and move. On his belly like a snake he went, and she saw a red gleam beneath his hand. He passed behind a heap of plunder, and was gone,

Out from the stacks of fodder three tongues of flame leapt up and clove the night. The horses hard by screamed in fright and broke loose, and galloped across the camp, crushing the feasting throng with wild hoofs. Who could staggered to their feet, invoking demons, and ran to beat out the fire. But the hay was fiercely ablaze, and all the cattle mad with terror broke upon them, and the camp was utter chaos, man and beast fighting together in a frenzy, sweating and scorched by the glaring heat.

Stealthily round by the circling stockade the harper came. He trailed a Danish axe behind him, and reaching black shadow beyond the glare rose to his full height, and drove a slicing blow at the stockade timber. One more, and he had gap enough for a body to pass. Then he turned to the women. No word he said, but with swift dagger he loosed their bonds, and pointed the way to freedom. Gasping, half dazed by the whirl of fortune, they crept out. None heeded them. The Danes had other work. Their jarls were shouting order into them, and while some strove to master the frenzied horses, others made a line to the nearer river stream and, passing the ale-skins swift from hand to hand, kept a stream of water on the fire. The task defied them. The hay burnt fiercely in despite of all, and the flames had hold of store of plunder, and licked greedily at the stockade.

It was the harper, stooping to half his height, but moving swiftly enough, who led the women away across the farther stream. Born and reared in the midst of alarms, they did not fail their chance. They held his pace, and were away into the sheltering gloom before any of the Danes, caught in the stress of desperate battle, could mark them. Safe upon the highway, the harper halted and let them gather round him. “Follow me: follow to Wintonceastre.”

“And thou? Who art thou?” they breathed passionately.

“I am Alfred the King.”

They were trembling to fall down and worship him, but he led swiftly on and spared them no more leisure. Even as the watchmen challenged them from the town's white rampart, and he gave the word that passed them in, he vanished into the night.

Inside the great rampart above Stockbridge, on the crest of the Danebury down, the fyrd of Wessex was mustering. Thither the king came before dawn and found his good servant Ethelred, Ealdorman of the Hwiccas, much alarmed for him. But King Alfred, when he had prayed to God and the mother of God, slept with good heart. He had his plan clear. All the next day new strength gathered to him, thegn and wealthy cheorl, each in his shirt of ring mail, and even the poorest with shield and spear. By twilight the king spoke with a great host, and through the darkest of the night he led them away eastward over the broken downs. The Danish camp woke in the morning to see a new rampart white on St. Catherine's hill. Then heartily they cursed King Alfred.

They knew his strategy. He would not attack their camp. He meant to starve them into attacking him as he lay fortressed behind steep ramparts, on the steep hill-side. He would wait high above them till they sent out a party for forage, then fall upon that with all his host; and so again and again, till they were forced to fight as he chose. Their case was made the more difficult by that fire which had devoured all the camp's store. But the heathen of the raven standard never knew fear. By night a party stole away down the rich river valley and were almost safe in camp again, with the burden of many a plundered homestead, before the Saxons marked them down. There was a wild, whirling charge, and a swift fight by the hazelwood and the river, and many a Dane was smitten, but the better part of the plunder came safely to camp, and the Saxons fell sullenly back from the stockade, from a victory half won.

The women came out from Wintonceastre to care for their wounded, and bore them away. But the stricken Danes were left to fight their agony out, and the most of them found with jagged axe or broken spear-head a swift path to Valhalla. Rolf Ragnar's son had no strength even for that. He lay across. dead men, blue faced, breathing stertorously, and from his riven helm broke a dark mass of clotted blood. After nightfall, through the slumbering wood a woman came leading an ass. She took the Dane in her arms, and clasping him to her bosom, straining all her slight strength, laid him, unconscious still, across her beast, and made away.

When Rolf knew himself again he was lying in a cave of the chalk on a bed of beech-leaves, and he looked up at Morwenna's white brow. His sunken, bloodshot eyes set intent upon her a long while: then painfully he moved-his bound head, and peered on either side. He could make nothing of it, and the weary eyes came back to her. “Thou?” he said faintly. “Thou? What bed is this?”

“Thou art safe,” she said, and with that turned away and wept.

He lay in an ancient treasure house. Morwenna, daughter of Caradoc, was of the race that ruled England before the Saxon came, or Cæsar, and the inheritance of her blood, besides more skill in handicraft than the Saxon knew, was many a secret of forest and hill. The Saxons of Wintonceastre held her and her kin in awe that was mingled with hate and fear, There were murmurs sometimes of witchcraft and werewolves, but none dared speak too loud, and so Morwenna lived unhindered, and found her chance to steal out day by day and watch over the Dane.

His strength came back to him on a swift tide. She could see life stir in the wasted limbs of the great body, and the light of his fierce soul glow again in his eyes. He spoke to her no more than of common needs, though his eyes began to seek her hungrily, till one morning of a warm throbbing wind she found him risen and sitting without the cave in the sunshine,

“I grow hungry, Morwenna,” he laughed.

“I can content thy need.”

“That is sure.”

She hid her eyes from him, busy in drawing viands from her pouch. The bright boughs swayed and sang, and made the sunbeams dance about her neck.

“What am I to thee, Morwenna?”

The blue eyes flashed sudden defiance. “A man that is helpless.”

“No more?” His brow lowered. “Nay, that were folly.” Smiling he laid his hand upon her, and she had much ado to shake it off.

“I hate thee in thy strength,” she cried fiercely.

He muttered some oath by Odin's head, frowning at her. “If I serve no need of thine, why dost serve me?”

She laughed at him, her eyes dancing merrily. “Nay, thou art like a little greedy child. Come, child, to thy dinner.”

That helped his bewilderment not at all, and he looked grim and long at her before he fell upon the meat.... “How fares the fight?”

“There is none. King Alfred still watches your camp, but they dare not assail him.”

“Let the Christian assail them! I mock at your Christian war, that is all mind-work and craft. You Christ's kin, you have no joy in the song of the axe and the red blood's glow.”

“Nay, ours is the good news of peace.”

“The good news of death,” quoth the Dane. He looked at her, mocking. Her blue eyes met him with a maid's pure courage, and against that soon his eyes glowed fierce. He gripped her arm. “But the heart beats hot in thy Christian bosom, Morwenna,” he cried, and strove to draw her close, She withstood him, her eyes still gave him challenge, but her neck was rosy with quick blood. “Nay, then, why didst breathe life into me?”

“I—I cared for him who suffered,” she said, and made herself free. “Soon thou wilt be strong.” A moment she sped hither and thither, busy about his needs: then without a farewell she was gone, speeding a lithe dark form amid the lithe silvery beeches.

Swiftly she went back through the wood, and stealthily into the town. There were too many might care to mark her journeys. The Dane set himself to prove his new-born strength. He could walk only a little way without dizziness and trembling, and he tottered back to the cave in a cold rage of impotence. But each hour strength grew in him.

When she came again he took no heed of her greeting, and glowering at her renewed the battle: “Does thy heart wake only for the weak, Morwenna?”

She checked and stood at gaze a moment. “A woman loves most what wants help most.”

“Thou—wouldst thou waste thy glad blood on maimed manhood?”

“It is life to serve,” she said, and was busy about his meal.

“The life of the. Lordly life is all mad joy. Hath thy maiden heart no longing?”

She was turned from him. She made no answer. On the throbbing wind was borne the wanton gaiety of a blackbird's song.

The Dane came to her quick-breathed. “Man's triumph is maid's triumph, Morwenna. Thy best hour is born of mine. Thy”

She sprang from him and fronted him with wild bright eyes. “I am mine own,” she cried flinging her arms wide to the wind: “and glad—glad!”

“Ay, fight thine own heart! It has not been at thy will many a day.”

“It rests in my bosom, not thine, Dane.”

“By the hammer of Thor it has throbbed for me since I snatched thee and the flowers fell from thy bosom, since I bore thee away and bound thee for my will.” He sprang upon her and caught her hungrily. “Tell true! Art thou not all mine?”

She had given a low quivering cry. She strove feebly against the hard fettering arms. She hid her face on his breast and murmured in a low voice of pain: “Thine!” She lay conquered, at rest.

Unresisting she gave herself to the ruthless kiss of his will. Soon the white cheeks burnt hot, and passionate life beat in her again. She tore herself from his arms and fled like a hunted hind.

The Dane came breathless to his cave and sat down, heavily. More than the strength of his body had failed him. His dark brow was drawn, and he buried his face in his hands fighting strange pain.

As Morwenna sped through the west gate into the town, a cunning fellow, Ethelwold, the son of Edwy, caught at her gown with a “Where hast thou been, witch?”

“I have been no whither!” she cried and hurried on.

But Ethelwold looked after her with malign eyes. The old Saxon distrust of her British blood, the suspicion of her fondness for the woods, were inflamed by the stress of the long leaguer.

If that bore hard on Wintonceastre and hard upon King Alfred's army the Danes suffered more. The fierce lust of triumph was well quenched. Their food was shrunken and scanty. To linger in the stockade was to starve. To march forth was to be overborne by the crushing mass of the Saxon host. To attack that hillside rampart with their scanty company offered no better hope. Plain to their fancy the red raven of their banner hung its head and drooped its wings.

And high above them the golden dragon of Wessex rode the wind gaily, and King Alfred paced his rampart keen-eyed and patient, watching their ways.

All the night through, sleepless, Morwenna was torn by a passion of maidenhood. A glad rosy dawn came fraught with courage. Since still he needed her for very food as a babe its mother, she must surely seek him again. But shame-faced, she knew that was no honest plea. In a maiden's misery of scorning herself for love, she stole out from the town.

There were some who followed her. Ethelwold, and Eadbald the hunter, and Odda the town's swineherd, and half-a-dozen more.

Rolf waited her in fierce yearning. He had lived a night of bewildered trouble like a wounded beast. The wild joy of conquest that he counted on was broken with distrust of himself. In his savage manhood a new nerve throbbed. But he beat it to silence and made his plan.

He sprang to meet her, holding out his arms. She faltered, and all but fell, and then came running. She was crushed against his mail, quivering, and for a while they had no words.

“Mine! thou art mine, Morwenna!”

She gave a wretched laugh: “Thine—the Virgin help me!”

“Pray to no Virgin! Thou art done with those wan, weakling Gods. Thou must drink the foaming horn of full life. Art athirst yet?” He held her away from him, for the joy of sight, but she bowed her head, hot and shamed. With a fierce laugh he caught her to him again, and made her eyes endure the flame of his. “We'll away from this listless land, thou and I. I cannot draw the breath of the byre. We'll away! There are men enough will break from this weary Christian war to follow Rolf, Ragnar's son. We'll away! The long ships lie in Hamble creek. Thou shalt have the swan's path for thy bridal bed. Aoi, for the lash and shriek of the storm wind, and the crash of the plunging bows! Aoi, for the loom of the land, and the white Southron city! Aoi, for the fight and the broken breast bones, and the roof trees all in a low! Aoi, for the weeping women slaves and the red gold in ballast! So northward, northward, driving at the oar-blades. Away to the hall above the blue fjord, and the cunning slaves shall work thy will, and clothe thy white body with the soft Southron silk, and braid thy bright hair with gems. All winter thou shalt feast fat and quaff the wine of life, and when spring looses the heart again, and the grey snow water roars down, see the long ship leap to the spray. Aoi, for the swan's path and the blades that thirst for blood!”

She was gazing at him with wide eyes of terror, like some weak creature conquered by a beast of prey. With sudden passionate strength she broke herself free and hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

Frowning, he strode to her and caught her wrist. “What now, fool?”

“Go—go thy way.”

“Not without thee, Morwenna.”

She shuddered. “Rather may God slay me. Yours is the life of devils.”

He wrenched her hands from her tear-stained, distorted face. “What fool's weakness is this?”

“It is no weakness, but very truth,” she cried. “Thou art all torture and greed!... Ah, Mary mother, forgive me!”

He flung her off, so that she reeled a long way and fell. He broke out in mocking laughter. “Thou cold weakling! Fit bride for thy white, weeping Christ!” Again he strode to her and his hands were fidgety. It seemed that he would kill her, and perhaps she had thanked him for it. But in a moment he spurned her. “Go back to thy dead life. I count thee with the bloodless vermin. Go!” and he left her, and reckless, strode off down the wood,

Morwenna lay racked with terrible sobs and tried to pray.... The thicket rustled, and Ethelwold the son of Edwy, stood over her, smiling evil will. “It seems little gain to betray thy people, witch.”

Through a dazzling veil of tears she saw men all about her. She started up and Eadbold gripped her. “Rolf!” she screamed. They closed about her with oaths. “Rolf! the Saxons are upon thee! Away! The Saxons are upon thee! Save thyself!” and Ethelwold smote her mouth.

The brave townsmen, who had not dared to match themselves against one mailed Dane, were in no mind to linger there. Roughly they haled her away to the town and struck at her heart with horrible threats. But Morwenna did not shrink, and there was peace in her eyes.

Rolf's anger had borne him at speed. He was all but down to the river; a few yards more would have shown him the stockade and his cousin, Jarl Ragnar, marching out with a company to King Alfred's camp, when he heard Morwenna's cry. He stood like a man of stone. She give him safety! It was not to be borne. He turned and strode back upon danger.

Vainly you guess what purpose possessed him. It was the pride of his blood to dare wild deeds. He willed, maybe, that she should see him die, or rage among her kin slaying with naked hands, He came back to the cave and found the tracks of many men. Glowering, he followed their path to the town. But they were far before him in haste with the joy of torture, and they were within the rampart and crying the town moot, and all the folk were running together when he came out to the clearing, and the lonely watchman left by the west gate saw with amazed eyes a single Dane unarmed, marching bold upon the town. The watchman came down to talk with him. Rolf beat him aside and strode on. He had seen the crowd running to the moot-ground, and guessed the truth. After them down the bare street he strode, and so a company that rode in by the east gate saw their haste and his, as he came alone, tall, in gleaming mail, with his golden hair wild in the wind. The first of these, a big bearded man of keen eyes, turned to the shaven priest at his side. “How rede you this, my lord?”

But Rolf took no heed of them, and turned away where the crier was calling the court. His eyes were ablaze. He saw a splendid setting for death.

About the grey stump of a tree, sacred to dead gods, on the green beside the hall of Wulf, the reeve—Wolvesey they call it now—the folk-moot gathered. Grey-bearded ealdormen, in long red robes edged with fur, held the inmost ring of the circle. About them crowded a throng of short-coated cheorls, bare of head and leg, and on the verge the women clung together and whispered. The leaders of that mounted company turned aside from the street to listen. Rolf was on the verge of the throng, looking easily over all to the midst.

Morwenna stood there in the grip of Ethelwold, and calmly met the glare of eyes that knew no mercy. The good Ethelwold made a venomous tale. She was of no honest Saxon blood, a witch herself and the daughter of witches. She had unholy converse with the beasts. She was a werewolf or a troll; why else did she haunt the fearsome places of the woods? Nay, and now she was proven breaking the King's peace, betraying the common weal. Day by day she had gone out to company wickedly with the heathen. That hour she was seen in the arms of a giant Dane, and when they seized upon her she gave him to safety, being thus vilely besotted of heathenry.

“Thou hast heard, Morwenna sayest thou?” said Wulf the Reeve.

“It is a lie and true,” said Morwenna in a low, clear voice. “No witch am I, but a Christian maid, who loves the woodland because it is kind to me. But one of the Danes lay a-dying, and I have nursed him and fed him.”

“Thou hast fed the foes of the King?” quoth the reeve, and bent his grey brow.

“Yes, I have fed the foes of the King”—she bowed her head and trembled—“even of the King of Heaven.”

There was an ugly roar from the crowd, and Ethelwold shouted: “I cry her doom, master reeve, I cry her doom!”

“It is good folk-law,” said the reeve. “She hath fed the foes of the King. She must die. Let her be burnt in the Dead Man's field, having first the right of the cord, since she is a maid. How say you”

This way and that men went reeling as Rolf clove his way to the midst, to Morwenna. He stood there, towering above her, a gleaming giant of war. “Hear my words!” he thundered. “I am he that she saved. My life for hers! My life for hers, master reeve!” He made a stride forward and the aged ealdormen shrank back into the crowd and left him fronting the younger men, and knives leapt out with yells of hate. “Ay, ye can slay me, as a pack of hounds pull down the boar at bay. But two lives or three will wend out on the wind before Rolf, Ragnar's son, is sped. Spare her, spare my maid, Morwenna, and ye shall slay me like a sheep in the shambles.” There was a wave of murmurs, but no clear answer, and the ring of knives and spears closed upon him. Loud and gay he laughed then. “Lay on!” he cried, and sprang back to Morwenna's side. A mighty buffet beat Ethelwold down, and he snatched the girl against him and stood so in the midst of the closing foemen. “Aoi, for the last lone fight! Aoi, for the glad glow of death!”

Deep as his own rang another voice: “Room, room for the King!” That bearded horseman was riding into the press, stately and calm. Beneath the blue cloak his mail gleamed like silver, his mitre helmet flamed of gold. Straight before him he held his bare sword, grasping it by the grey blade, so that the gold-wrought cross-hilt shone high above them. On either side they surged away, and he came easily to the midst. Heedless of all else his keen eyes dwelt on Rolf and Morwenna. Rolf's eyes met him fiercely, but, gazing, were shadowed with doubt and wonder, and the grim brow bent. Morwenna was weeping and red. “What is thy sin, maiden?” said the King gently.

“My lord, I found him smitten to death, and made him whole. No more than that—in truth—yet—yet more, since love for the heathen is more.”

The King turned in his saddle. “How say you, my lord bishop—is that so black a sin?”

“If that be sin,” quoth Bishop Denewulf, “how great a sinner were the Lord Christ!”

The King bent his head. Then his keen eyes scanned the swaying, doubting crowd. “Methinks you are quick with your dooms, men of Winton. I could cry you another,” his eyes sought Ethelwold, who had scrambled to his feet, and was nursing an injured jaw, “a doom against folk-leasing. Good law it is that the evil tongue be torn.” Ethelwold slunk hastily into the crowd. “Ay, go thy ways. Little men are quick to torture, slow to endure. Master reeve, and you my folk of Wintonceastre, I thought not to find you at a work of death. I am come home to you with peace.” Like a thunder-clap the roar of joy broke out, and he looked over a wild sea of waving hands. “The host of the Danes hath sworn faith to me with great oaths, and they shall quit Wessex, and dwell at peace in the waste land north of Thames. For there is need of men, and surely they shall breed with us one people. And what is best, they swear faith also with the Christ. On the morrow I do receive the Jarl Ragnar in baptism, and here shall his chrism-loosing be. So in this may God work with us, for without Him no man may do aught of good.”

Then the tumult of rejoicing broke again....

But the King turned from the crowd to Morwenna and the Dane. She rested still by his side, but her head was bowed, and her hands crossed on her bosom. His eyes met the King, searching and grave. He was beckoned closer, and man and maid came together. Then, through the glad din: “I have seen a man do a man's deed to-day,” said the King. “Wilt thou be man of mine?”

“Thou art he who played the harper with us,” said Rolf.

“I am he.”

“It was thou who spoilt us of our spoil, one mocking a host?”

“Since it was so God willed.”

“That white, weeping Christ of thine?”

“Even He who died for thee as this maid would have died.”

The Dane brushed his hand across his brow. “I see in a mist,” he muttered. Morwenna gazed up at him in a passion of pleading, but he took no heed of her. “I would be Christ's man too, to be such as thou,” he said slowly; then in a fierce, eager cry: “Let my hand lie between thy hands. I will be thy true thegn.”

So the strong hands grasped, and the fearless eyes spoke together.

“Go we now to the minster,” said the King, and began to sing:

Rolf and Morwenna followed him, hand in hand.