Never before had the old national proclamation, which no Saxon capable of bearing arms had ever resisted, been published to such deaf ears. Wulfhere sprang up with a shout: “God be praised! The king lives!” But the mass of the people responded not but murmured among themselves that resistance was useless. If they submitted, they would be allowed to till the soil, and to live in their homes even as their brethren in Mercia and East Anglia were doing; while opposition meant death, loss of homes and loved ones. So the message fell upon deaf ears, and the messenger swept on to other villages with the summons. Wulfhere’s shout met no answering one of gladness. The old man sat down amazed and despairing. “What hath become of the spirit of the Saxons?” he asked fiercely. “Now shall we be conquered by the Dane, even as our forefathers conquered the Britons. The Saxons serfs? Out, I say! To what have the descendents of Woden fallen that they should submit without a blow to the pagan?” “Friend,” spoke a ceorl near by, “have a care to thy words. The land hath been ravaged by the invader for years. No rest can be obtained either by resistance or by gifts and money. We are weary of strife. Serfdom and life are better than freedom and death. Marry, let us have peace!” “Come, Egwina,” and Wulfhere rose, his form dilated, his lip curled with scorn. “Theowes already be these men. I would be no more among them. Come!” Obediently the girl followed him. There were some mutterings from those who heard his words, but they were allowed to depart without molestation. They had not gone far from the village when they saw in the distance a party of Danes approaching on horseback. As the Danes caught sight of the man and the maiden, they spurred their horses and came up to the two on a run. “A scald and a scald maiden,” cried they in delight. “Now let song and dance be our portion. Weary are we of the fray. Let us have song.” They flung themselves from their palfreys and surrounded the two. Egwina shrank close to her grandfather. “No song, even for thy life, girl,” commanded the old man sternly. “Strike up, old scald! Is thy harp mute that thou dost not sweep it?” spoke the leader. “A song! A song in praise of Guthrum! Guthrum the bold!” But Wulfhere folded his arms across his harp and remained silent. “Silent art thou?” demanded he who seemed to be the chief. “’Tis fear that whitens his face and makes his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth,” laughed a youth mockingly. “Haco, take the harp,” commanded the jarl. “Do thou sing for us. Then will the old man be stirred to obey. He seems to forget that we war not against gleemen.” The youth stepped toward Wulfhere and reached out his hand for the instrument. Still silent, the bard drew his seax and cut the strings with one blow. “What!” cried the chief in fury. “What doest thou?” “No harp of mine shall sing in praise of Guthrum,” responded Wulfhere sternly.