made from the spoils of that tall viking chief
that I had slain.

Then was there feasting, and songs of gleemen, and, better still, that
song of Stert fight sung by Alfred the Atheling himself in full hall.
And then had Wislac full excuse for what he did in the king's presence,
for at the end all the hall joined in a mighty Wessex war shout. And
that, said the atheling, was a poet's greatest praise, to have stirred
the hearts of men to forgetfulness of aught but the song.

Now, when we must needs ride away westward, with Wulfhere and Aldhelm
for attendants, and the collier and my lay brethren again for guards,
the king gave Alswythe a ring, praying her to spare me to him if need
should be; and she, half weeping, yet proudly, told him that she would
be the first to arm me for his service. And the queen kissed her, but
the atheling said that soon he should see us again, for he would ride
with me over the battle-ground, and learn it all, when our hall was
ready for a guest.

Then Wislac took leave of us last of all, even as we started, for he
said he would have no long leave taking. Nor did he know if he must not
come with Alfred to fight the battle over again. And we prayed him to do
so, for I loved the quaint sayings and cool valour of the
broad-shouldered thane.

But Eanulf and Ceorle rode with many of the thanes a mile or more with
us on our way from the town, and there, having set us fairly off, left
us with hearty good-speeds. But they left one behind, who joined himself
to our little company. And that was Turkil, clad like myself in silver
mail, and on a white pony, but with flame-coloured cloak and scarf. For
that was the atheling's doing, when he knew that "Grendel's friend" was
to be brought up in our hall, to grow into the stout warrior I had boded
him to be.

Now should my story be ended were it a fairy tale, but it is not that.
Well I knew that, happy as I was, the day must come when I must bear
forward to battle the golden dragon banner of Wessex, and I cannot
rightly tell if I dreaded or longed for that day. Maybe there was a
mixture of both dread and longing in my thoughts thereof.

But when we came over Brent Knoll, on our way back to my place and
Alswythe's at Cannington, there lay the black ships under the holms yet,
and there, too, were the burnt walls of our houses, though these were
rising up again as the king's men wrought at them. And all the land lay
waste and neglected, and, as we rode ove