her. "He is possessed. My lord Odo, you had better
exorcise him."

But Edwy had given way--he was young--and burst into a passionate
fit of weeping, his royal dignity all forgotten.

"Give him time! give him time, father!" said they all.

"One day; he must then submit, or I must do my duty; I have no choice--
none," replied the archbishop.

And the council sadly broke up; but Athelwold sought a private interview
with Elgiva.

It was the evening of the same day, and the fair Elgiva sat alone in her
apartment, into which the westering sun was casting his last beams of
liquid light; tears had stained her cheeks and reddened her eyes, but
she looked beautiful as ever, like the poet's or painter's conception of
the goddess of love. Around her were numerous evidences of a woman's
delicate tastes, of tastes too in advance of her day. The harp, which
Edwy had given her the day of their inauspicious union, stood in one
corner of the apartment; richly ornamented manuscripts lay scattered
about--not, as usual, legends of the saints, and breviaries, but the
writings of the heathen poets, especially those who sang most of love:
for she was learned in such lore.

At last the well-known step was heard approaching, and her heart beat
violently. Edwy entered, his face bearing the traces of his mental
struggle; he threw himself down upon a couch, and did not speak for some
few moments. She arose and stood beside him.

"Edwy, my lord, you are ill at ease."

"I am indeed, Elgiva; oh! if you knew what I have had to endure this day!"

"I know it all, my Edwy; you cannot sacrifice your Elgiva, but she can
sacrifice herself."

"Elgiva! what do you mean?"

"You have to choose between your country and your wife; she has made the
choice for you."

Here she strove violently to repress her emotion.

"Elgiva! you shall never go--never, never--it will break my heart."

"It will break mine; but better hearts should break than that civil war
should desolate our country, or that you should be dethroned."

"No more of this, Elgiva; you shall not go, I swear it! come weal or
woe. Are we not man and wife? Have we not ever been faithful to each other?"

"But this dreadful Church, my Edwy, which crushes men's affections and
rules their intellects with a giant's strength more fearful than the
fabled hammer of Thor. It crushed the sweet mythology of old, with all
that ministered to love, and substituted the shaveling, the nun, the
monk; it