like dogs let loose, they broke their ranks and fell upon the fugitives. Then Feargus wound his horn and strove to stay the slaughter, but little sense had the most of them left; they were drunk with blood, and only his own men gathered around him. And the rush of the Lindeseymen was ever towards Lindum, their city; some fled through the forest there to ford the stream, and some turned east and made their way into the fens, and the Mercians followed those that fled through the forest and those that fled up the east bank of Trent. Feargus’s thoughts were for Torfrida and to save Sigmund, if it might be. Seeing that Penda had kept together a great body of men about him and was safe from surprise, Feargus horsed as many of his followers as he could find beasts for, and the rest held each a stirrup and ran with them afoot. The chase lasted till midnight when they came within sight of Sigmund’s city of Lincoln or Lindum, which stood high on a great hill; but already the Mercians were at its gates; some had scaled the walls and some were in fight with the fugitives as they came up. Riding hard across the plain below, Feargus saw fire burst from one of the ports; a great shout followed, and now all the sky was filled with flames and smoke and myriads of sparks; for a moment the men slackened their speed, awe-stricken, at the savage sight. Feargus saw that the town had fallen, and, leaving his men behind, dashed on like a madman. When he neared the gate the fire lighted up the bloody hands and faces of the besiegers, flushed with drink and victory, and he shuddered as he beheld them—little mercy would king or lady get from these men, and, spurring his horse, he burst through the press, and when they heard his cry, “Albanich! Albanich!” they made way, though with curses at being turned from their prey. Through the burning town he rode; one or two tried to stay him, but he dashed them fiercely aground, and at last drew up by the hall of Sigmund. Here the press was thicker, and he saw the door was down and the drunken rout were in; and coarse jests and oaths and shrieks filled the air. Then Feargus sprang from his beast and burst in, crying, “Back, back!” but the soldiers heeded him not, and one even turned and struck him. Now a giant was Feargus, his red head stood out a full span above the dark-haired Britons of Arden forest and the pale-haired English of the towns, and he laid hold of him who struck, by the waist, and lightly tossed him out through the open door, and then, not wishing to slay any, seized an oaken staff and dealt blows right and left; each one he struck was quickly sobered and asked for no more. At length he gained the hall. There he found the Mercians gathered also, but he burst through them to the king’s chamber where he beheld Sigmund’s youngest son, Edwy, with half-a-dozen stalwart thanes. At his feet lay his two brothers, dead; while behind, crouching to the floor, her hands