Moaning, she drew her little ones to her while the others looked at her compassionately. At this moment a mighty shout rose from without the castle walls. “The king! The king!” The clash of steel, the shouts and cries which now broke forth with renewed vigor, showed that the king had indeed come. Elswitha sprang to her feet, her face transfigured with joy. “God be praised!” she cried. “It is my lord. Now, my children, ye are in sooth safe. O thank God! Thank God!” But even as she spoke, the door fell inward with a crash, and the Northmen burst into the room. Wulfhere drew his seax, and threw himself in front of the women and children. The youths—Edward and the cup-bearer—ranged themselves beside him. “Minstrel, sheathe thy sword,” cried the foremost of the Danes. “Arms and battle are not for thee. It is thine to sing the praises of warriors. Sheathe thy sword.” “I will, an it please thee, in thy body,” answered Wulfhere. He made a lunge, and the Dane fell pierced through the heart. The others sprang toward him, but the youths received those in the fore on their swords. Then rose the voice of Guthrum, King of the Danes, and it rang through the hall: “Whoso brings me the head of Alfred the King, him will I hold dearer than a brother, and great shall be his reward.” The Northmen turned and ran back towards the hall, shouting as they did so: “Safe enow art thou, minstrel. Later will our swords drink of thy blood.” Elswitha started up frantically. “Come,” she cried. “Let us to Alfred. There only is safety.” “Thou art right. Let us be gone ere others of the pagans come,” said the bard. “Do ye,” to the youths, “lead, and let the women follow. I will bring up the rear.” The two boys went before. Elswitha and Eadburga came next with the three children. Egwina and Ethelfleda followed, while Wulfhere guarded the rear. Out into the night they went. The wind which had arisen, moaned and sobbed as though bewailing the strife. The din without the castle was fearful. The wailing of women and children mingled with the clash of swords and the cries of battle. Citizens ran to and fro, whither they knew not, seeking loved ones or refuge from the Danes. The darkness of the night was broken only by the torchlights which flitted hither and thither, or were suddenly extinguished as the bearers fell pierced by sword or arrow. Hesitating only for a moment, the boys turned in the direction of the sound of the conflict. They had gone but a short distance, when there was a great shout, and the Saxons—warriors, citizens, women and children—went flying past them. “Fly, men of Wessex,” they cried as they ran. “Fly, and save yourselves!” It was impossible to stem the living current. The little party was obliged to turn and go with the surging, seething mass of humanity. And now the torch was applied to finish the awful work. Soon the ruddy flames leaped high in the air, lighting up the sky with a lurid glare, and bathing the landscape in a crimson glow.