THE RETURN OF ALFRED.
The reader is, we trust, somewhat impatient to learn the fate of Alfred
of Æscendune, whom we left in so critical a position.
The fall of the bridge was so sudden and unexpected, that he scarcely
knew where he was, till he found himself sucked rapidly down stream by
the raging waters, when he struck out like a man, and battled for dear
life. But the only result seemed to be that he was bruised and battered
against the rocks and stones, until, exhausted, he was on the point of
succumbing to his fate, as the current bore him into a calm deep pool,
where he sank helplessly, his strength gone. But the guide and his
companion Oswy had succeeded in reaching the spot, which was
inaccessible from the other side, and plunging at once into the waters,
the latter succeeded in bringing the dying youth to land. Dunstan and
the other members of the party were soon on the spot; the lay brother
was skilled in the art of restoring suspended animation, and they soon
had the happiness of beholding Alfred return to consciousness; he
raised his head, and gazed about him like one in a dream, not able to
realise his position.
“Where am I? What have I been doing?” he exclaimed.
“You are safe, my dear son, and in the hands of friends,” replied
Dunstan, “although you have had a narrow, narrow escape; we are secure
for the present from our foes.”
They consulted together in low tones as to their future movements, and
the abbot inquired particularly of the guide concerning the fords and
bridges.
“There is a ford only a mile or two away, but I expect they will find
they cannot cross it.”
“Is there no place of refuge near? He is unable to sit his horse.”
“There is a cottage close by, kept by a cowherd, who is a good and true
man.”
“Then lead us to it at once,” replied Dunstan.
Alfred had by this time recognised his position, and he implored
Dunstan not to endanger his own safety for his sake; but the abbot paid
no attention. They reached the cottage just as the day was dawning, and
the east was bright with rosy light. It was such a place as the great
king, after whom Alfred was named, had found refuge in when pressed by
the Danes. It was poor, but neat and clean beyond the usual degree; and
when the wants of their early visitors were known, and Dunstan was
recognised, the utmost zeal was displayed in his cause.
All that could be done for Alfred was done at once, but he was
manifestly too shaken and bruised to be able to travel; and, giving him
his fatherly blessing, Dunstan was compelled by the guide to hurry on,
leaving him in the care of Oswy.
They had not, however, great fear of their pursuers, for their own
horses were comparatively fresh after the rest in the ruined city, and
those of their foes would be necessarily fatigued, after the rapid ride
along the Foss Way, and their exertions to pass the stream.
So it was not with great uneasiness, well mounted as they were, that,
gaining the road, they beheld their pursuers in the distance, who, on
their part, beholding their intended victims afar off, hastened to spur
their horses on.
It was useless: the pursued had the advantage, and after the gallop of
a mile or two, it became evident they were in no especial danger,
although it must be remembered that a false step or slip, or any
accident, would have been fatal.
“I should not mind racing them down the Foss to the Sea Town,” xxv said
the guide; “but if the abbot has no objection, I should prefer leaving
them to pursue the road, while we take a cross-country route, which I
have often travelled; it is a very good one.”
“By all means,” said Dunstan, “and then we may slacken this furious
pace.”
They were quite out of sight of their pursuers when, coming upon a
track of dry stony ground, they suddenly left the road, and crossing a
wild heath, put a copse between them and the enemy, who did not this
time discover for miles the absence of the footprints, for the soil was
very dry and hard, the storm not having passed that way, and the foe
were intent upon hard riding.
So they gained a long start, and eventually reached a hill, from which
they obtained their first view of the sea. It was eventide, and the
western sun, sinking towards the promontories beyond the distant Exe,
reddened the waters with his glowing light. Dunstan and his brethren
thanked God.
“We have come to the setting sun,” said they, “and at eventide have
seen light; let us thank Him Who hath preserved us.”
But the guide, who knew what relentless pursuers were yet behind, would
allow them no rest. In another hour they reached a small fishing
village on the coast, where a solitary bark was kept. The owner was
just about to put out for an evening’s fishing, but at the earnest
request of his visitors, backed by much gold, he consented to take them
over to the opposite coast.
“The weather promises to be very clear and fine,” he said; “and we may
sail across without any danger.”
It was indeed a lovely night; they stepped on board, the anchor was
loosed, the sail set, and with the wind behind, they stood rapidly out
to sea. They were quite silent, each immersed in his own thoughts. At
last they heard the sound of horsemen galloping on the fast-receding
shore, and looking back, they saw twelve riders reach the beach, and
pause, looking wistfully out to sea.
“Our soul is escaped, even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler;
the snare is broken, and we are delivered,” said Dunstan.
“Our help standeth in the name of the Lord, Who hath made heaven and
earth,” replied Father Guthlac.
Meanwhile, Alfred rapidly gained strength. Happily no bones were
broken, he was only sadly bruised. The next day he expressed his
earnest wish to return home, but his host would not permit him, saying
he should have to answer to Dunstan some day for his guest.
The time passed monotonously enough that second day, yet not
unpleasantly: there were a thousand things to observe in the woods and
marshes around, full of animal life.
Early in the morning, a sweet fresh morning, the cowherd drove his
cattle forth to graze, where he knew the pastures were sweetest, and
Alfred would willingly have gone, too, but they told him he must rest.
So he took his breakfast of hot milk and bread, with oat cakes baked on
the hearth, and waited patiently till the warmth of the day tempted him
out, under the care of Oswy, to watch the distant herd, to drink of the
clear spring or recline under some huge spreading beech, while the
breeze made sweet melodies in his ears, and lulled him pleasantly to
sleep.
At midday they returned to the customary dinner, which was not of such
inferior quality as one would now expect to find in such a place,
contrasting strongly with the fare on the tables of the rich: then
there was far more equality in the food of rich and poor, and Alfred
had no cause to complain of the cowherd’s table.
Then he sauntered forth again with Oswy, and strove to amuse himself
with the book of nature; till just at eventide, as he was longing
earnestly that he could know the fate of his fugitive friends, they
heard the sound of a horse at full trot, and soon the guide appeared in
sight.
Alfred rose up eagerly.
“Are they safe?” he cried.
“Yes, quite safe; they had got a mile out to sea when their pursuers
got to the beach; I saw it all, hidden in a woody hill above.”
“Did they try to follow?”
“They could not, there was no boat: I never saw men in such a rage.”
Alfred felt as if a weight were removed from his heart, then he looked
up in the face of the guide.
“Will you guide us home?” he said.
“Yes,” was the reply; “the holy abbot particularly desired me to return
to his son Alfred, and to take care of him on his journey home; and if
you will have me as your guide, I will warrant you a safe journey to
Æscendune, for we are not worth following.”
“Then let us start tomorrow morning,” said Alfred, longing to be once
more in his old father’s presence, and to cheer his mother’s heart.
They returned together to the cowherd’s cottage, and slept peacefully
that night. Early in the morning they retook the path to the Foss Way,
crossing the stream at a ford higher up. Their horses being well rested
and full of spirit for the journey, they passed Glastonbury, still
empty and desolate, in the middle of the day, and retraced by easy
stages the whole of Alfred’s previous route from home.
After a week’s easy travelling, by the blessing of Providence, they
reached the neighbourhood of Æscendune: it had never looked so lovely,
so home-like to Alfred as then. He felt as if every spot were full of
joy, and as he was recognised by person after person, by his favourite
dogs as they bounded forth, and finally fell into his mother’s arms at
the gate of the hall, he experienced feelings which in these days, when
we are all so familiar with the thought of travel, can seldom be
realised.
Then he had to recount his adventures that night, after supper, to an
admiring audience, who listened enraptured to his account of the
holiness of Dunstan and the cruelty of his foes. But it will easily be
imagined that he made no allusion to his rencontre with Elfric; and
Oswy, instructed by his young master, was equally silent.
He had quite made up his mind to persevere in this course: it could do
no good to tell father or mother how grievously Elfric had fallen, and
how nearly he had been the involuntary instrument of his brother’s
death.
“God can change his heart,” said Alfred to himself, “and bring him home
like the prodigal son about whom Father Cuthbert talks so often.”
So he prayed earnestly every day for his brother, and many a
supplication on his behalf arose from the altar of St. Wilfred. Time
will show whether they were lost.