"Yes, we have been obedient to our king, and avenged him this night of his enemies, who are also, I should have thought, the enemies of the Church." "God will not bless midnight murder," said I. "Murder! it is not murder to slay heathen Danes; had they been Christians it would, of course, have been a different thing." "He hath made of one blood all the nations of the earth," I replied. "The good prior wishes me to talk theology. Unfortunately I have much work to do; you will hear tidings soon of other Danish holds than this. The land may rejoice, freed from her oppressors, and they who blame our work will praise its results." "That remains to be seen," we both replied. We had, meanwhile, placed Alfgar, now partially recovered, on a palfrey; and, supported by my brother and me, one on each side, we led him homewards. Arrived at the castle, we gave him to the care of Osred, the domestic physician. He looked at the patient, and pronounced a favourable opinion, saying that with time and care all would be well. But his left arm was broken, and he had received a slight blow on the head. Fever was the leech's chief apprehension; if he could keep that off, he said he doubted not all would be well. St. Andrew's Day.-- Our patient has lain some time in a state of delirium, whereat no one could wonder. In his ravings he was incessantly acting over the scenes through which he had passed during the dreadful night which followed St. Brice's Day. But, thanks to a good constitution, today he has taken a favourable turn, and seems likely to recover from a blow which would have hopelessly shattered a frailer frame. I was seated by his couch when he seemed to awake out of sleep, and I saw his bright dark eyes fixed inquiringly on me. "Where am I?" he inquired. "In the Hall of Aescendune; you have been very ill here." "Indeed! I have had such dreadful dreams!--but were they all dreams?" "Your mind has been wandering for days, my dear son. You must not talk too much." He was silent, but evidently pondered more. December 25, Christmas Day, 1003. {iv}-- All the household has given itself up to joy and gladness; even poor Alfgar, who has been released today from the confinement of his chamber, has entered into the general joy, although ever and anon relapsing into sadness. He knows all now: a day or two agone, when all the household had gone to hunt in the woods, I was alone with him in his chamber, and thought that at last I must discharge the painful task of telling him the truth. "My boy," I said, "you have not lately inquired about your father." He looked at me very sadly. "I know all," he said, "that you would tell me. I have no father, no mother, no kinsfolk." "Some of our people have told you then?"