They
watched the sun as he sank lower and lower in the western sky, and
thought of the woods and forests they must traverse, frequented by
wolves, and sometimes by outlaws whom they dreaded far more. Still
Dunstan did not appear.
Alfred and Guthlac, on a watchtower above, gazed on the plain stretched
before them. Mile after mile it extended towards that forest where the
enemy was now known to lurk, and they watched each road, nay, each copse
and field, with jealous eye, lest it should conceal an enemy. Ofttimes
the shadow of some passing cloud, as it swept over moor or mere, was
taken for an armed host; ofttimes the wind, as it sighed amongst the
trees and blew the dried leaves hither and thither, seemed to carry the
warning "An enemy is near."
At length danger seemed to show itself plainly: just as the sun set, a
dark shadow moved from a distant angle of the forest on the plain
beneath, and the words "The enemy!" escaped simultaneously from Alfred
and Guthlac as the setting sun seemed reflected upon spear and sword,
flashing in a hundred points as they caught the reflection of the
departing luminary.
Alfred, at the prior's desire, hurried to the chamber of Dunstan.
"Father," he said, "the enemy are near. They have left the forest."
"That is four miles in distance: there will be time for me to finish
this letter to my brother of Abingdon."
"But, father, their horses may be fleeter than ours.
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