Who
is laughing? it is not Dunstan; break his chamber open, slay him: is a
monk's blood redder than a peasant's? O Elgiva hast thou slain my
father? See, I am all on fire; it is thy doing. Edwy, my king, Dunstan
is burning me: save me!"
Then there was a long pause, and Redwald or Ragnar as we may now call
him stood over his unhappy cousin. The fair head lay back on the pillow,
with its profusion of golden locks; the face was red and fiery, the eyes
weak and bloodshot.
"Water! water! I burn!" he said.
There was no cooling medicine to alleviate the burning throat, no gentle
hand to smooth the pillow, no mother to render the sweet offices of
maternal love, no father to whisper forgiveness to the dying boy.
"Better he should die thus," said Ragnar, "since I cannot spare him
without breaking my oath to the dead."
Then he left the room hastily, as if he feared his own resolution. The
sentinel looked imploringly at him, as the cries of the revellers came
from below.
"Go!" said Ragnar, "join thy companions; no sentinel is required here.
Go and feast; I will come and join you."
So he tried to drown his new-born pity in wine.
At a late hour of the day, Alfred and his attendants arrived, bringing
news of the coming succour to Father Cuthbert and the other friends who
awaited him with much anxiety. They had contrived to account for his
absence to the lady Edith, from whom they thought it necessary to hide
the true state of affairs.
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