While the Saxon king was plundering his subjects in order to pay an ever-increasing "danegeld," while the people, exhausted, were writhing under the double extortion of the conquerors and of the legitimate sovereign, an old man was enabled, single-handed, to resist the demands of the proud Danes. The archbishop of Canterbury, Elphege, had for twenty days defended his town against the reiterated assaults of the enemy, when a traitor opened the gates to the Danes. They rushed into the place, mad with anger and thirsting for revenge. They sent for the old archbishop, who had not sought refuge in any hiding-place. He was brought forth, bound in chains, before their chief, Thurkill. "Buy your life," cried the chief, touched with compassion. "I have no money," the archbishop calmly replied. The Danes were beginning to close round him. "He is a servant of God," said Thurkill; "perhaps he is poor." And he suggested a small sum as ransom for the archbishop. "Prevail upon your king to collect together the value of all his property, so that we may leave England," he added. The old man looked at him impassively. "I have not the money which you ask for," he repeated, "and I shall not urge the king to further oppress his people in order to purchase your departure." The eyes of the Dane flashed with anger; he no longer endeavored to protect the archbishop against his soldiers. But the firmness of the old man had produced a wonderful effect upon them: he was led into prison without suffering the slightest injury. Towards dusk, when he was alone, his brother found a means of reaching him; he brought the sum fixed upon for the ransom of the archbishop. "No," the latter said, "I cannot consent to enrich the enemies of my country." The Danes came hourly, urging the old man to purchase his freedom. "You will urge me in vain," at last said Elphege; "I am not the man to provide Christian flesh for pagan teeth, by robbing my flock to enrich their enemies." {69} The pirates had lost all patience; it was late; they were already heated with drink; they dragged the old man out of prison. "Gold, bishop! Give us gold!" they all cried together, and they closed round him threateningly. The old man was silent; he was praying. Hustled, beaten, wounded, the archbishop fell upon a pile of bones, the remains of the rude banquet. His enemies seized these primitive weapons, and he fell under their blows. A Dane, to whom he was still preaching the Gospel an hour before, and whom he had baptized with his own hands, at length took a hatchet and put an end to the old man's agony.