Edwy was unhurt; he dismounted: his fair face flushed to a fiery red with heat and excitement, he leapt on the entrenchment and looked on the plain. He saw those of his own followers who had not yet made good their escape, ridden down, cut to pieces, slaughtered in the excitement of the moment without mercy; the sight stung him, be would have sallied out to their defence, but Cynewulf, who was yet living, met him in the gateway, and sternly seized the bridle of his steed. “My lord and king,” he said; “your life is precious to Wessex, you may not throw it away.” “I cannot see my followers slaughtered: loose my bridle, I command you;” and he raised his sword impetuously. “You may cut me down, and so reward my faithful service; but, living, you shall not pass me on your road to destruction. My lord, I am old enough to be your father.” But there was one gay young noble present, who knew better than Cynewulf the key to Edwy’s heart. He was one of the boon companions we have been before introduced to; but he had fought, poor young fellow, gallantly all that day, and now he could fight no longer: Edwy saw him reel and fall from his horse. “Elfgar!” he said; as he strove to raise his friend and subject from the ground—“not seriously wounded I hope!” “Dying, and for my king, as is my duty let a dying voice reach you, my dear lord. Save yourself if you would save Elgiva, if you —if you—” the words came broken and faint “—are slain, she will be at the mercy of her deadly foes.” His head fell helplessly down upon his shoulder, and ere the king could make any reply, he saw that he was indeed past hope. But his dying words had sunk deeply into the heart of Edwy. “Poor Elfgar! he was right. O Elgiva! Elgiva! this is a sad day for thee.” “Return then to her, my lord,” said Cynewulf. “See, they are preparing now to assault the camp; I can hold it for hours, and if you are not here, I can make good terms with our foes; but, if you stay, you but embarrass us: ride out, my liege.” “And desert my subjects?” “They will all acquit you: haste, my lord, haste, before they surround the camp, for your fair queen’s sake, or you are lost.” “Come, my men, we must fly,” said Edwy, sullenly; and he led the way reluctantly to the back of the camp. The road was partly encumbered with fugitives, but not wholly, as most of them sought the entrenched camp. Cynewulf accompanied him to the gate, where he stopped to give one last piece of advice. “Fly, my lord, for Wessex at once; lose no time; the best route will be the Foss Way; they will not suspect that you have taken that direction. Ride day and night; if you delay anywhere you are lost.” “Farewell, faithful and wise counsellor. Odin and Thor send that we may meet again;” and Edwy with only a dozen followers rode out at full speed. The Mercians had not yet reached that side of the camp, which was concealed by woods which were clear of all enemies, and he rode on rapidly.