poor folk, and the
danger from the Danes.

A violent knocking on the door was followed by the entrance of such a
magnificent object that the spectators immediately applauded his advent.
Nora, with her large build, short-cut hair, and generally boyish
appearance, was the very one to act King Alfred. She had folded a plaid
traveling rug into a kilt which reached just to her bare knees, borrowed
a velvet coatee and a leather belt from Mrs. Best, and, by the aid of
bandages from the ambulance cupboard, had made quite a good imitation of
Saxon leg-gear. Armed with a bow and arrows, hastily constructed from
twigs cut in the garden, she advanced with a manly stride, begged for
hospitality, and was accommodated with a stool by the hearth, where she
sat whittling arrows in an abstracted fashion, and heaving gusty sighs.

The audience had hardly recovered from its astonishment when it was
thrilled again by the entrance of an ancient and elderly peasant man, so
disguised that it was almost impossible to recognize Ingred. A
water-proof with a broad leather belt served as coat, and, being padded
inside with a pillow, gave the effect of bent and bowed shoulders. Some
tow, supplied by Mrs. Best, was fastened as a long straggling beard, and
bushy eyebrows of the same material were fixed on with soap. Leaning
heavily upon a stick, he came limping in, complaining in a tremulous
voice of his rheumatism, started with amazement at the sight of the
handsome stranger seated by his hearth, and drew his wife aside for
explanations. The old couple, after conversing in audible whispers,
decided to go out for more firewood, and as a last charge the dame
commended her cakes to the care of their guest. King Alfred, on being
left alone by the hearth, whittled away at his arrows with more energy
than discrimination, and showed indeed a sad lack of practical skill for
so well seasoned a warrior. Perhaps, however, he was not accustomed to
have to make them for himself, and missed his chief archer. Throwing
them down at last, he sank his head in his hands in an absolute cinema
pose of despondency, and sighed to an extent which must have been
painful to his lungs. The dame returned to sniff burning cakes and fly
to the rescue of her cookery. Fil was quite a good little actress, and
produced what she considered her _piece de resistance_. She had spent
her summer holidays in Somerset, and had there picked up a local ballad
which dealt with the legend in d