“For thee was a house built ere thou wert born, For thee was a mold shapen ere thou of thy mother camest. Its height is not determined, nor its depth measured; Nor is it closed up, however long it may be, until I thee bring where thou shalt remain; Until I shall measure thee, and the sod of the earth. Thy house is not highly built; it is not unhigh and low. When thou art in it, the heel ways are low, the side ways unhigh. The roof is built thy breast full high; So thou shalt in earth dwell full cold, dim, and dark. Doorless is that house, and dark it is within. There thou art fast detained, and Death holds the key. Loathly is that earth house, and grim to dwell in. There thou shalt dwell, and worms shall share thee. Thus thou art laid, and leavest thy friends. Thou hast no friend that will come to thee, Who will ever inquire how that house liketh thee. Who shall ever open for thee the door, and seek thee; For soon thou becomest loathly and hateful to look upon.” “The saints guard us!” ejaculated Ælfric, crossing himself devoutly. “I like not thy song, father, and if it were with songs like that, it marvels me much how thy Aldhelm should draw the people to hear him. Quotha! my flesh creepeth to think of it! Doth not thine, Friend Harper?” Wulfhere’s face was inscrutable, and he made no reply for, Saxon-like, he scorned to show that the picture held any dread for him. “It is indeed gloomy to think upon, son,” said the abbot, “if that were all of death; but the religion of our Saviour hath robbed the grave of its terrors. We know that the soul is beyond, and what matters the body?” “A truce to such talk,” cried Ælfric. “Give us the Te Deum, priest. I like not to think on such things.” “It shall be as thou wishest, though much I mislike to leave the subject as I perceive that thou art ungodly.” Then all joined in the sublime, unmetrical Te Deum. “Did thy priest but sing that,” burst from the juggler, “I would wonder not at the people listening to him.” The abbot smiled, well pleased. “Thy heart is not altogether hardened, son, if it be touched by the hymn,” he said. “Mayhap thou wilt be willing yet to talk with me.” After more singing, the conversation turned upon the Danes, and the probability of a fresh outbreak discussed. The hour was late when the abbot, noting that Egwina’s eyes were heavy and that it was with difficulty she kept awake, arose. “To bed! to bed! See ye not that the maiden is aweary?” So saying he conducted them to the guest house, a building in the courtyard but without the convent proper, and soon quiet reigned over the monastery. CHAPTER III—A THIEF IN THE NIGHT Soft and downy was the bed in the bower chamber to which Egwina had been assigned, and grateful was it to the weary maiden, who was soon fast asleep.