“Heed him not,” he said. “Doth not the beast growl when foiled? What harm can befall us if we are in the king’s hand? Come!” CHAPTER IV—IN THE HALL OF ALFRED Wulfhere and Egwina journeyed slowly northward over Hampshire, into Berkshire, and thence into Wiltshire, so that it was not until the sixth day of the Wolf month that they arrived at Chippenham. The landscape was dreary and barren. The wind howled dismally through the branches of the leafless trees. The sedge by the river was silvered over by heavy rime and the frosted flag rushes seemed to cut like swords. The gray clouds hung low in the dull leaden sky until the summits of the hills in the distance were lost among them. The wide-open moors and hedgeless commons showed no sign of any living thing on their desolate wastes. Without the gates of the city all was chill and drear, but within the sounds of music and revelry could be heard on every hand; for it was the twelfth night, and the feast of the Epiphany. For twelve days the yule log had blazed on every hearth, and as soon as the last of its embers died out life must again take on its work-a-day aspect. So loud rang the mirth and hearty the feast of the last of the holy festival. Chippenham held one of the strongest of the royal residences. A long, low irregular building, it still towered above the other dwellings of the burgh. It was brilliantly lighted, for night was fast approaching when the wayfarers entered the gates, and Wulfhere and Egwina immediately made their way to it. A dense throng of poor people waited without the hall for the remnants of the banquet which was going on within. Pushing their way through them, the two paused just outside the portals. “Now, child,” commanded Wulfhere, “sing as thou hast never sung before. ’Tis Alfred the king who hears thee.” And with his own nerves tingling, Wulfhere swept the strings of his harp, and they sang softly and tenderly an old ballad. The noise and the glee within ceased with the first few notes of the melody. The sweetness of the girl’s clear soprano blended with the deep bass of the bard, making a pleasing harmony. When they had finished the strain, the portals were flung wide, and the voice of the warder called in ringing tones: “Now who be ye that bring such music from the harp?” “Wulfhere, the Gleeman, with his daughter, Egwina the Fair.” “Enter, Wulfhere, with thy daughter; and for our good cheer give us of thy melody. I wot that none of Alfred’s harpers hath such power of the harp. Enter and welcome!”