Alfgar had completely lost the reckoning of times and days since his
imprisonment, but he felt that weeks must have passed away, and that
the critical period foretold by Edmund must be near, so he listened
anxiously for any intelligence from the world without.
At last the weather became very cold, and being without a fire, his
sufferings were great, until his ferocious gaoler, finding him quite
stiffened, brought up a brazier of coals, which saved his prisoner's
life, while it filled the room with smoke, which could only escape by
the crevices in walls and roof, for to open a window would have been
as bad as to dispense with the fire, such was the state of the outer
air.
It was what we call an old-fashioned Christmas, in all its glory and
severity--a thing easy enough to bear, nay to enjoy, when men have
warm fires and plenty of food, but hard enough to endure where these
are absent.
At last Alfgar could but conclude it was Christmastide, for Higbald
was joined by two comrades, and they sang and rioted below in a way
which showed that they had got plenty of intoxicating drink, and were
making free with it.
In the evening of the day Higbald brought him up his supper,
staggering as he did so, and with it he brought in a bowl of hot mead.
"Drink," he said, "and drown care. It is Yuletide, and drink thou must
and shalt."
Alfgar drank moderately, for sooth to say it was invigorating and
welcome that cold day, but Higbald finished the bowl then and there,
and then staggering down, drew the outer bolt in such a way that it
missed the staple, which fact he was too drunk to perceive.
Alfgar watched the action with eager eyes. It was the first time there
had been even a chance of escape.
Meanwhile the evening sped by; and the noisy crew below quarrelled and
sang, drank and shouted, while the bright moonlight--brighter as it
was reflected from the snow of that December night--stole over the
scene.
Not till then did Alfgar pass silently through the open door, and
listen at the head of the staircase. Before him was the outer door,
the key in the lock. The question was--Could he reach it unobserved by
men or mastiff?
Liberty was worth the attempt. He descended the stairs softly. At the
bottom he looked around. The door was fastened which led into the
large hall where the gaolers were drinking. He advanced to the outer
portal, when he heard the growl of the dog from behind the inner door.
The moment was critical. Evidently his masters did not comprehend the
action of the too faithful brute, for they cursed and swore at it.
Even then it growled, and the drunken fools--drunken they must have
been indeed--threw some heavy missile at it, which caused it to yelp
and cease its growling.
Just then something flashed in the ray of moonlight which stole in
through an aperture over the door.
It was a sharp double-edged sword.
He grasped it with eagerness. It was now a case of liberty or death.
He knew how to wield it full well.
Stealthily he turned the key and the door stood open. Still his
captors sang, and he caught the words:
"When we cannot get blood we can drink the red wine,
The Sea King sang in his might;
For it maddens the brain, it gives strength to the arm,
And kindles the soul in the fight."
Now he was on the outer side of the door, and he shut it, and then
locked it and tossed the key into the snow.
But which way was he to go? He could not make out the locality, but it
was evident that the hill rose above him, and he knew that from its
summit he could discern the bearings of places, so he resolved to
ascend.
It was now about nine at night, an hour when our ancestors generally
retired to rest. All Alfgar's desire and hope--O how joyful a
hope!--was to see from the hill the bearings of Clifton, and to
descend, with all the speed in his power, towards it. He might arrive
before they had retired to rest. So he ran eagerly forward. The moon
was bright, and the snow reflected so much light that locomotion was
easy.
And now he became conscious that there was a strange gleam along the
snow on his left hand--a strange red gleam, which grew stronger and
stronger as he advanced. It seemed above and below--to redden the
skies, the frozen treetops with their glittering snow wreaths, and the
smooth surface beneath alike.
Redder and redder as he ascended, until he suddenly emerged upon the
open hill. Before him were earthworks, which had been thrown up in
olden wars, before Englishman or Dane had trodden these coasts. He
scrambled into a deep hollow filled with snow, then out again, and up
to the summit, when he saw the cause of the illumination.
Before him the whole country to the southeast seemed in flames.
Village after village gave forth its baleful light; and even while he
gazed the fiery flood burst forth in spots hitherto dark. He stood as
one transfixed, until the wind brought with it a strange and fearful
cry, as if the exultation of fiends were mingled with the despairing
cry of perishing human beings.
He knew whence it came by the red light slowly stealing beyond the
next hill, and the fiery tongues of flame which rose heavenward,
although the houses were hidden by the ground.
It was from Wallingford, a town three miles below Dorchester. He knew,
too, where he was himself; and the one impulse which rushed upon him
was to hasten to Clifton, where he trusted he might find Edmund, or,
at least, hear of him in this dread emergency. He saw the village
lying beneath in the distance, and turned to rush downward, entering
the wood in a different direction.
But what sound is that which makes him start and pause?
It is the bay of the mastiff. He is pursued. He clasps his sword with
desperate tenacity, in which a foe might read his doom, and rushes on,
crushing through the brushwood.
Again the bay of the hound.
Onward, onward, he tramples through bush and bramble, until he sees
his progress suddenly arrested by the dark-flowing river.
He coasts along its banks, keeping up stream. The bay of the dog seems
close at hand, and the trampling of human feet accompanies it.
All at once he comes upon a road descending to the brink, and sees a
ferry boat at the foot of the descent. He rushes towards it and
enters. The pole is in the boat. He unlooses the chain, but with
difficulty, and precious moments are lost. He hears the panting of the
ferocious beast just as he pushes the boat, with vigorous thrust, out
into the stream.
The dog, followed closely by the men, is on the bank. The men curse
and swear, but the dog plunges into the chilly stream, which, being
swollen, has too rapid a current to freeze. Alfgar sees the brute
swimming after the boat; he ceases to use the pole, but takes his
sword, kneels on the stern of the boat, and waits for the mastiff. It
gains the boat, and tries to mount, when the keen steel is driven
between the forepaws to its very heart. One loud howl, and it floats
down the stream, dyeing the waters with its life-blood.
"Cursed Dane!" shouts Higbald. "thou shalt pay with thy own life
blood."
"When you catch me; and even then you must fight for it. Meanwhile, if
you be an Englishman, warn the good people of Dorchester that the
Danes are upon them. Your Edric has betrayed them."
Reaching the other shore, Alfgar finds smooth meadows all covered with
snow. He knows his way now. A little higher up he strikes the main
road which leads to Clifton, and rushes on past field and grove, past
hedgerow and forest. Behind him the heavens are growing angry with
lurid light, before him the earth lies in stillness and silence; the
moonbeams slumbering on placid river, glittering on frozen pool, or
silvering happy homesteads--happy hitherto. He sees the lights in the
hall of Herstan yet burning, and casting their reflection abroad. He
is at the foot of the ascent leading up to it. One minute more and--
. . . . . .
Christmas day was almost over when the population of Herstan's village
of Clifton obeyed the summons with alacrity to spend the evening in
the hall in feasting and merriment. They had all duly performed the
religious duties of the day, and had been greatly edified by the
homily of Father Cuthbert at mass; and now innocent mirth was to close
the hallowed day--mirth which they well believed was not alien to the
birthday of Him who once sanctified the marriage festivities at Cana
by His first miracle.
So thither flocked the young and the old: the wood rangers and hunters
from the forests of Newenham, where Herstan had right of wood cutting;
the men who wove baskets and hurdles of osier work from the river
banks; the theows who cultivated the home farm; the ceorls who rented
a hide of land here and a hide there--all, the grandfather and the
grandson, accepted the invitation to feast. The rich and the poor met
together, for God was the Maker of them all.
The huge Yule log burnt upon the hearth as it had done since it was
lighted the night before; a profusion of torches turned night into
day; the tables groaned with the weight of the good cheer; in short,
all was there which could express joy and thanksgiving.
The supper was over; the wild boar roasted whole, the huge joints of
mutton and beef, the made dishes, the various preparations of milk,
had disappeared, the cheerful cup was handed round; after which the
tables were removed, the gleemen sang their Christmas carols, and all
went merry as a "marriage bell."
Father Cuthbert, seated in a corner near the Yule log, with his
brother-in-law and the Etheling, forgot all his apprehensions, and
shared in the universal joy around him; if his thoughts were sometimes
with those who had once made Christmas bright to him--if he thought
of the bright-haired Bertric, who had been the soul of last Yuletide
festivity at Aescendune, or of the desolated home there, he dismissed
the subject from his mind at once, and suffered no hint to drop which
could dim the mirth of his fellow guests.
Meanwhile, one of those whom he strove in vain to forget for the time
drew nearer and nearer; a haggard figure, wan and worn by painful
imprisonment, the garments dishevelled, the hair matted, the whole
figure wild with excitement, he drew near the outer gate.
He heard the song of joy and peace within as he paused one moment
before blowing the horn which hung at the outer gate.
Peace! Peace!
The whole wide world rejoiceth now,
Let war and discord cease;
Christ reigneth from the manger,
Away with strife and danger;
Our God, before whom angels bow,
Each taught this lesson by his birth,
Good will to men, and peace on earth.
Peace! Peace!
Hark, through the silent air
Angelic songs declare
God comes on earth to dwell
O hear the heavenly chorus swell,
Good will to men,
And on earth, peace.
He could bear it no longer, the contrast was too painful, he must
break the sweet charm, the hallowed song, for the sky was reddening
yet more luridly behind him, and each moment he expected to see
Dorchester burst forth into flames. O what a Christmas night!
He blew the horn, and had to blow it again and again before he was
heard.
At length a solitary serf came to the gate:
"Who is there?"
"A messenger for the Etheling; is Prince Edmund with you? I would see
him."
"All are welcome tonight, but I fear you will find the Etheling
ill-disposed to leave the feast."
"Let me in."
Astonished at the tone of the request, the porter reluctantly
complied, first looking around.
"Why, thou art wild and breathless; is aught amiss?"
"Step out and look over the hills; what dost thou see?"
"Why, the heaven is in fire; is it the northern lights?"
"Southern, you mean; the Danes are upon us."
Staggered by the tidings, the man no longer opposed his entrance, and
Alfgar staggered into the hall, forgetting that he was come amongst
them like one risen from the dead.
He entered the hall at first unnoticed, but the merry laughter and
cheerful conversation withered before his presence, as of one who came
to blast it.
Father Cuthbert and Edmund, amongst others, turned round to see what
caused the lull, and started from their seats as they beheld at the
end of the room Alfgar, his face pale as one risen from the dead, his
black locks hanging dishevelled around his neck, his garments torn,
his whole person disordered. At first they really believed he had
returned from the tomb.
They hesitated, but for one moment in speechless surprise, then rushed
forward.
"Alfgar!" cried the Prince.
"My son!" cried Father Cuthbert, "whence hast thou come? dost thou yet
live?"
"Father; Prince; I live to warn you--the Danes, the Danes!" and he
sank fainting into the arms of Herstan.
"Surely he raves," said they all.
The porter here ventured to speak.
"My lord, please go to the front of the house and look over the
water."
Father Cuthbert and Edmund at once left the hall, followed by several
others.
The mansion was seated on a considerable elevation; below them rolled
the Isis; across the river a couple of miles of flat meadow land lay
between them and the Synodune hills, and beyond the lessening range of
those hills, on the southeast, they looked, and behold the smoke of
the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.