The continuous roar of thunder, the hissing of the descending rain, the
wind which blew in angry gusts, prevented all conversation until nearly
an hour had elapsed, when the strife began to diminish. It was a sad and
mournful sight to gaze upon the remains of departed greatness when thus
illuminated by the electric flash, and easily might the fancy, deceived
by the transient glimpses of things, people the ruins with the shades of
their departed inhabitants.
"Father," said Alfred, at length, "who were they who lived here? Do you
know aught about them?"
"The men whom our ancestors subdued--the Welsh, or British--an
unhappy race."
"Were they heathen?"
"At one time, but they were converted by the missions from Rome and the
East, of which the earliest was that of St. Joseph of Arimathea to our
own Glastonbury; he may have preached to the very people who lived here,
nay, in this very basilica, which, I think, may have been converted into
a church."
It was indeed the ruin of a basilica wherein they stood, but no trace
survived to show whether Dunstan's conjecture was correct.
"It seems strange that God should have permitted them to fall before the
sword of our heathen ancestors."
"Their own historian Gildas, who lies buried at Glastonbury, explains
it. He tells us that such was the corruption of faith and of morals
towards the close of their brief day, that had not the Saxon sword
interposed; plague, pestilence, or famine, or some similar calamity,
must have done the fatal work.
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