“And the end, I suppose,” said Edwy, “will be that I shall shave my head like a monk, banquet sumptuously upon herbs and water, spend three-fourths of the day singing psalms through my nose, wear a hair shirt, look as starved as a weasel, and at last, after sundry combats with the devil, pinch his nose, and go off to heaven in all the odour of sanctity. Go and preach all this to Edgar; I am not fool enough to listen to it. You have got him to be your obedient slave and vassal; you have bought him, body and soul, and the price has been Mercia, and now you want to add Wessex. Well, I wish you joy of him, and him of you all; for my part, if I could do it, I would restore the worship of Odin and Thor, and offer you priests as bloody sacrifices to him: I would!” “Peace, my lord and king! peace! this is horrible,” said Athelwold. “Horrible!” said another. “He is possessed. My lord Odo, you had better exorcise him.” But Edwy had given way—he was young—and burst into a passionate fit of weeping, his royal dignity all forgotten. “Give him time! give him time, father!” said they all. “One day; he must then submit, or I must do my duty; I have no choice—none,” replied the archbishop. And the council sadly broke up; but Athelwold sought a private interview with Elgiva. It was the evening of the same day, and the fair Elgiva sat alone in her apartment, into which the westering sun was casting his last beams of liquid light; tears had stained her cheeks and reddened her eyes, but she looked beautiful as ever, like the poet’s or painter’s conception of the goddess of love. Around her were numerous evidences of a woman’s delicate tastes, of tastes too in advance of her day. The harp, which Edwy had given her the day of their inauspicious union, stood in one corner of the apartment; richly ornamented manuscripts lay scattered about—not, as usual, legends of the saints, and breviaries, but the writings of the heathen poets, especially those who sang most of love: for she was learned in such lore. At last the well-known step was heard approaching, and her heart beat violently. Edwy entered, his face bearing the traces of his mental struggle; he threw himself down upon a couch, and did not speak for some few moments. She arose and stood beside him. “Edwy, my lord, you are ill at ease.” “I am indeed, Elgiva; oh! if you knew what I have had to endure this day!” “I know it all, my Edwy; you cannot sacrifice your Elgiva, but she can sacrifice herself.” “Elgiva! what do you mean?” “You have to choose between your country and your wife; she has made the choice for you.” Here she strove violently to repress her emotion. “Elgiva! you shall never go—never, never—it will break my heart.” “It will break mine; but better hearts should break than that civil war should desolate our country, or that you should be dethroned.”