his Church?"

"I have indeed. I have fasted in sackcloth and ashes, I have eaten the
bread of affliction."

"Where?"

"In my sad retreat, my castle in Mercia."

"But some public reparation is due. Art thou willing to accept such
penance as the Church, in consideration of thy perjuries, thy murders,
which man may not avenge, since treaties protect thee--but which God
will surely remember, if thou repent not--to accept such penance, I
say, as the Church shall impose?"

"I submit myself to your judgment, most reverend father."

"It shall be duly considered and delivered to thee; and in
consideration of that fact, I think, my lord, you cannot, as a
Christian man, refuse to be reconciled."

"O Edmund, my brother, be merciful!" said Elgitha.

"I yield," said Edmund, "but not tonight," he said, as Edric stretched
out his hand, reddened by many a dark deed of murder; "tomorrow,
before God's altar. I shall be at St. Frideswide's at the early mass."

And he returned to the company.

A cloud was evidently on his spirits that night, which did not wear
off the rest of the evening. The party separated at what would now be
called an early hour. The bishop and Father Cuthbert lodged at the
monastic house of Osney; Elfwyn, his wife and child, as also Herstan,
with his little party, were accommodated in the mansion.

The chamber occupied by the king was a long roomy place, containing a
single bedstead of carved wood, surmounted by the usual distinctive
canopy, from which tapestried hangings depended, and upon which
scriptural subjects were woven; the furniture of the room partook of
the usual meagreness of the times. The entrance was through a small
antechamber, wherein, on a humbler bedstead, Alfgar slept. Both rooms
were hung with tapestry, which concealed rough walls, such as a
builder would blush to own as his handiwork in these luxurious days.

Before retiring to rest, Edmund turned with much affection to his
attendant.

"Alfgar, I have promised to forgive our enemy."

"Edric Streorn?"

Alfgar added no more.

"Couldst thou forgive him?"

"I would try."

"His hand is red with blood. Think of Sigeferth, of Morcar, of
Elfhelm, nay, of a hundred others; then think not how he has plotted
against my life, but how he made my own father hate and disown me;
while he, the pampered favourite, swayed all the councils and betrayed
the land. O Alfgar! couldst thou forgive him?"

"He plotted against my life and my honour