nquiries made
concerning Alfgar?"

"He did."

"It is the curse of St. Brice's night."

"Fallen upon the innocent."

"Leave it to God," said I.

"I will try; let us go to my people."

And we arose and took the path through the woods, sorrowing for the
news we must carry, and still uncertain about the fate of Alfgar.

CHAPTER IX. THE CAMP OF THE DANES.

It was the noontide heat, and two Danish warriors reclined under the
shadow of an ancient beech, hard by the entrenched camp of the Danes,
a few days after the arrival of Alfgar therein. Their spears lay idly
on the grass, as if there were no foe to dread, and the land were
their own; they seemed deeply engrossed in conversation.

"Well, Anlaf, and when is your son going to give up his Christianity?"

"You are in a great hurry, Sidroc."

"Nay, all the camp inquires."

"They must wait."

"How long?"

"I cannot tell," said Anlaf, shifting uneasily about; "he is my only
son, the heir of a long line of warrior princes."

"To whom his life is a disgrace."

"Not altogether; he is brave."

"Would be, you mean, were he not a Christian."

"No, he is, or he would not dare cross my path as he does; death, with
which I have often threatened him, does not seem to have much terror
for him."

"Perhaps he does not know how terrible death can be made. Has he ever
heard of the rista oern {vii} (spread eagle)?"

"I should not value him much if I won him by fear. I must try other
modes."

"Only do not tarry; Sweyn himself inquires how long his obstinacy is
to be endured."

"He must not expect that every conversion can be accomplished with as
much rapidity as his own in early days."

"Better not refer to that."

"Why! he was baptized himself."

"He would slay any one who reminded him of it."

"Yes; the curse of Harold Bluetooth, they say, was not a comfortable
thing to get."

"The father was a Christian in that case, and the son returned to the
gods of his ancestors; in your case it is the opposite: the first
might be permitted, the last never."

"You would not talk in that way if he were your own son."

"Should I not? listen; I had a son, a noble, gallant boy of
fifteen--all fire and spirit--do you know how he died?"

"It was before we knew each other."

"Then I will tell you. We had been ravaging the Frankish coasts, and
the lad got a wound in his shoulder; we carried him home, for he had
fought like a wolf, and the leeches tried to cure him,