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
th