“And yet, as your messengers told us, you arrived in time to see him leave the coast.” “The vessel which bore him was still distinctly in sight when we stood on the sands.” “But had you no means of following?” “None: it was a lonely fishing village with a small harbour, and his bark was a mere fishing smack, the only one of the place.” “I trust the sea has swallowed him,” said the king; “but there is a rumour today that he is playing the saint in Flanders with great pomp. Well, only let him show his face in England again, and the devil may pinch my nose with his tongs if I leave him a head on his shoulders: he shall be a sacrifice to your outraged dignity, my Elgiva.” “And yours, my Edwy.” Husband and wife were quite agreed on this subject: they had never forgiven Dunstan in the least degree, and, identifying him with religion, had well-nigh abjured it altogether. The ordinary dishes being now removed, the guests all partook lavishly of wine, and, their heads already heated, yielded entirely to the excitement of the moment. Toast after toast was drunk to the king: he was compared to Apollo for his beauty, and Elgiva to Venus, while the old northern mythology was ransacked also for appellations in honour of the youthful pair. Adjoining, in the outer hall, the higher domestics had their music and dancing, and the king and queen came to honour the entertainment by their presence. So the happy hours wore away, and at length the company were on the eve of departure, for fatigue was making itself felt, when an ominous blowing of a horn was heard at the outer gate. A pause, during which the company looked at each other, so strangely had the sound struck them, and yet they knew not why, save that it was an unlikely hour for such an occurrence. There was one only who knew what the message would probably be —Redwald; and he had kept the secret purposely from the king. The doors opened, and an usher brought in a messenger who had only been allowed a moment to change a dusty dress, ere he broke into the presence of royalty. “Speak,” said Edwy, as the messenger bowed before him, and kissed his hand. “My lord and king—” and the messenger glanced at Elgiva. “Let him speak, Edwy, my lord. Are we not one? What you can bear, your wife must bear also.” Thus adjured, the messenger spoke his news. “Mercia has revolted, and proclaimed Edgar king.” “The cause alleged?” “I know not, my lord.” “I can tell you,” said Redwald; “the banishment of the holy fox, Dunstan, and very shame prevents my adding that—” “No more,” said Edwy; “I can guess the rest.” He wished to spare Elgiva. He walked up and down the hall several times. His festive air had gone. “And on my wedding day, too,” he said. “Redwald, you knew this.”