“I pray the unanimity of your piety to have my name in memory. Deign to intercede for my littleness in the church of your most holy father Nynia the bishop. “He shone bright with many virtues, as has recently been related to me by a skilful poem which our faithful disciples the scholars of the church of York have sent. In that poem I have discerned in that which I have read there both the skill of the writer and the holiness of him who wrought the miracles. Wherefore, I pray you, by your holy intercessions to commend me to his prayers, that by the most holy prayers of the same your father, and by the assiduous intercessions of your love, I may receive pardon for my sins, by the mercy of the God Christ, and may come to the communion of saints who have bravely conquered the labours of the world, and have received the crown of perpetual praise. “I send to the body of our holy father Nyniga (_sic_) a robe of whole silk, that my name may be remembered, and that I may merit to have always the pious intercession both of him and of you. “May Christ’s right hand protect and rule you, brothers.” Here is a very touching letter, which sets clearly before our eyes the dear affectionate old man—old as men then counted age—beaten at last by bodily weakness, while his heart was as loving as ever. It is addressed to “the most longed for lord David, most worthy of all honour.” [Sidenote: Ep. 170. A.D. 801, early autumn.] “Day by day, with hungry intentness of heart, my ears hanging on the words of messengers, I wondered anxiously what they could tell me of my most sweet lord David: when he would come home; when he would return to his own land. At last, though late, the wished-for voice sounded in the ears of my desire: ‘He will soon come. He has already crossed the Alps, he whose presence thou hast desired, O Albinus, with such fervour of mind.’ And then I cried over and over again with tearful voice: ‘O Lord Jesu, why dost thou not give me the wings of an eagle? Why dost thou not grant me the translation of the prophet Abacuc[284] for one day, or even one hour, that I might embrace and kiss the steps of him my dearest one, and—above all that can be loved in this world—see the most clear eyes of my sweetest one, and hear his most joyous words. And why dost thou, mine enemy of fever, oppress me at this inopportune time, and not permit me to have my wonted alacrity of body, so that, though tardily, that might be accomplished which promptly it cannot do.’” The dates and the story of his final illness and his death are found, as we have seen (Ch. II), in the life written about twenty years later by a pupil of Alcuin’s favourite priest Sigulf, and more concisely in the Annals of Pettau, a monastery not far from Salzburg, and therefore likely to be well-informed. Some of the touching facts should be repeated here.