“A picture of peaceful enjoyment,” he quietly said. “How often have I wished I could but lay down sword and lance to take more innocent weapons in hand, and to spend my declining days ’mid scenes like these.” “Indeed!” said Ella. “It is generally thought that men whose trade is war love their calling.” “Yes; sometimes the fierce din of battle seems a pastime fit for the gods, but the banquet is apt to cloy.” “Have you followed your profession for many years?” “Since I was a mere child; even my boyhood was passed amid the din of arms.” There were very few professional soldiers in that day, and they were much dreaded. An Englishman was always ready to take up arms when lawfully called by his feudal superior, or when home or civil rights were in danger, but he generally laid them down and returned to his fields with joy; hence the rustics looked upon a man like Redwald with much undisguised curiosity. “Think you we shall soon hear from the contending parties?” asked Alfred, who was, as usual, in attendance upon his father. “Perhaps by nightfall; one of my men has just returned to tell me that the king’s progress was stopped by an entrenched camp of the rebels, and that they expected to fight at early dawn.” The news was unexpected, and every one felt his heart beat more quickly. “I have a messenger already on the spot, and so soon as the royal forces have gained the victory he will speed hither as fast as four legs can bring him; we shall probably hear by eventide.” It is needless to say how every one panted for the decisive news. Ella and Alfred soon returned to the castle, and Redwald took his horse, and rode out, as he said, to meet the messenger. The hours seemed to pass more slowly; the sun drew near the west, the shadows lengthened; and Ella, with the lady Edith, Alfred, Edgitha, and all the members of the little society, could hardly bend their minds to any occupation, mental or physical. Elfric was ever in their thoughts. “O Ella!” said his wife, “this suspense is very hard to bear; I long to hear about our boy.” The mother’s heart was bound up in him, as if there were no other life in danger that day; Edwy or Edgar, it was little to her in comparison with her longing for her first-born son. “He is in God’s Hands, dearest!” returned her husband; “and in better Hands than ours.” Well might the thoughts of the lady Edith be concentrated on the crisis before her. She had borne, with a mother’s wounded heart, the separation of three years, and now it was a question of a few short hours whether she should ever see him again or not. Now fancy painted him wounded, nay dying, on the bloodstained field; now it impelled her to sally forth towards the scene, as though her feeble strength could bear her to him. Now she sought the chapel, and found refuge in prayer. She had found refuge many many hours of that eventful day, but especially since Redwald had borne the news of the imminent battle.