But Christ’s servant Ceolfrid, as has been said, died on his way to the threshold of the holy Apostles, of old age and weakness. For he reached the Lingones about nine o’clock, where he died seven hours after, and was honourably buried the next day in the church of the three twin martyrs, much to the sorrow, not only of the English who were in his train, to the number of eighty, but also of the neighbouring inhabitants, who were dissolved in tears at the loss of the reverend father. For it was almost impossible to avoid weeping to see part of his company continuing their journey without the holy father, whilst others, abandoning their first intentions, returned home to relate his death and burial; and others, again, lingered in sorrow at the tomb of the deceased among strangers speaking an unknown tongue. * * * * * Ceolfrid was seventy-four years old when he died: forty-seven years he had been in priest’s orders, during thirty-five of which he had been abbot; or, to speak more correctly, forty-three,—for, from the time when Benedict began to build his monastery in honour of the holiest of the Apostles, Ceolfrid had been his only companion, coadjutor, and teacher of the monastic rules. He never relaxed the rigour of ancient discipline from any occasions of old age, illness, or travel; for, from the day of his departure till the day of his death, i.e., from the 4th of June till the 25th of September, a space of one hundred and fourteen days, besides the canonical hours of prayer, he never omitted to go twice daily through the Psalter in order; and even when he became so weak that he could not ride on horseback, and was obliged to be carried in a horse-litter, the holy ceremony of the mass was offered up every day, except one which he passed at sea, and the three days immediately before his death. A RIDDLE OF CYNEWULF (BORN BETWEEN 720 AND 730). =Source.=—Ten Brink’s _English Literature_, vol. i., p. 52. Bohn’s Library. I was an armed warrior; now a proud one, A young hero, decks me with gold and silver, And with crooked wire-bows. Men sometimes kiss me; Sometimes I call to battle the willing comrades; Now a steed doth bear me over the boundaries. Now a sea-courser carries me, bright with jewels, Over the floods. And now there fills my bosom A maiden adorned with rings; or I may be robbed Of my gems, and hard and headless lie; or hang Prettily on the wall where warriors drink, Trimmed with trappings. Sometimes as an ornament brave Folk-warriors wear me on horseback; wind From the bosom of a man must I, in gold-hues bright, Swallow then. Sometimes to the wine I invite with my voice the valiant men; Or it rescues the stolen from the robbers’ grasp, Drives away enemies. Ask what my name is. _Answer_: The horn of a bull.