It was not till the day had far advanced that he awoke, greatly
refreshed, and saw Father Cuthbert and Alfred standing by him. They had
allayed the fever, bound up the wound, which was not in itself
dangerous, and he looked more like himself than one could have imagined
possible.
And now they thought they might venture to summon the lady Edith; and
Alfred broke the intelligence to her, for she knew not the events of the
night.
"Mother," he said; "we have news of Elfric, both bad and good, to tell you."
"He lives then," she said; "he lives!"
"Yes, lives, and is near; but he was wounded badly in the battle."
"I must go to him," she said, and arose, forgetting all possible
obstacles in a mother's love.
"He is near at hand, in the priory; you will find him much changed, but
they say he will do well."
She shook like an aspen leaf, and threw her garments around her with
nervous earnestness.
"Come, mother, take my arm."
"O Alfred, may I not come, too?" said little Edgitha.
"Yes, you may come too;" and they left the house.
Elfric heard them approach, and sat up in his bed, Father Cuthbert
supporting him with his arm; while another visitor, Edgar himself, stood
at the head of the bed, but retired to give place to the mother, as if
he felt no stranger could then intrude, when the widow clasped her
prodigal to her loving breast.
CHAPTER XXIV. SOW THE WIND, AND REAP THE WHIRLWIND.
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