ning sky, but I
think I discern the royal banner."

"Then the city yet holds out, and Canute has not arrived. We are yet
in time."

"The messenger said that their ships could not ascend the river while
the west wind blew, and it is blowing hard enough tonight."

"Well, when they come they may find London a hard nut even for Canute
to crack. The citizens of London are true as steel."

"See, we are espied, and they man the gates."

"Doubtless they think Canute is approaching. Ride rapidly, we shall
soon undeceive them."

They rode within bow shot of the gates, which were closed, and there
they paused, for a score of bowmen held their shafts to their ears.
Edmund, for our readers have long recognised him, bade his forces
halt, and advanced alone, with Alfgar, holding up his hand in sign of
peace.

"What, ho! men of London," he cried, "do you not recognise Edmund the
Etheling?"

A joyous cry of recognition burst forth, the gates were thrown open in
a minute, and as Edmund, followed by his train, rode in, cries of
welcome and exultation burst forth on all sides, while women and
children, sharing the general joy, kissed even the hem of his mantle.

Well they might, for their need was sore. Canute was near, his ships
had been seen entering the Thames, and his determination to take the
city, which had so often resisted the Danish arms, had been freely and
frankly expressed.

"Ah, well you know me, my countrymen, for a true Englishman!--one in
whose veins your blood flows, and who will be only too happy to fight
the Danish wolves at your head."

The cry, "Long live the Etheling Edmund!" had wakened the city, and
the narrow tortuous streets were becoming thronged by the crowd, so
that their farther progress threatened to be slow. Edmund perceived
this, and, turning to the captain of the guard, inquired anxiously:

"How fares the king, my father?"

"They say he is at death's door," was the reply.

"Then I may not tarry, good people. All thanks for your welcome, which
I hope I may live to repay, but just now my place is by my father's
side. I may not now delay till I come to him."

So the people made way without discontinuing their acclamations, and
Edmund and his train rode on till they reached the precincts of St.
Paul's cathedral church. Night was now coming on apace, amidst showers
of rain and hail, and gusts of wind, which caused the wooden spire to
rock visibly. Here and there faint lights twinkled through