e fatal blow was delivered, Elfrida
too, like the other women witnesses in the crowd, had uttered a cry of
horror. But once the deed was accomplished and the assurance received
that the body had been hidden where it would never be found, the feeling
experienced at the spectacle was changed to one of exultation. For now
at last, after three miserable years of brooding on her defeat, she had
unexpectedly triumphed, and it was as if she already had her foot set on
her enemies' necks. For now her boy would be king--happily there was no
other candidate in the field; now her great friends from all over the
land would fly to her aid, and with them for her councillors she would
practically be the ruler during the king's long minority.

Thus she exulted; then, when that first tempest of passionate excitement
had abated, came a revulsion of feeling when the vivid recollections of
that pitiful scene returned and would not be thrust away; when she saw
again the change from affection and delight at beholding her to
suspicion and fear, then terror, come into the face of the boy she had
loved; when she witnessed the dreadful blow and watched him when he
swerved and fell from the saddle and the frightened horse galloped
wildly away dragging him over the rough moor. For now she knew that in
her heart she had never hated him: the animosity had been only on the
surface and was an overflow of her consuming hatred of the primate. She
had always loved the boy, and now that he no longer stood in her way to
power she loved him again. And she had slain him! O no, she was thankful
to think she had not! His death had come about by chance. Her commands
to her people had been that he was not to be allowed to leave the
castle; she had resolved to detain him, to hide and hold him a captive,
to persuade or in some way compel him to abdicate in his brother's
favour. She could not now say just how she had intended to deal with
him, but it was never her intention to murder him. Her commands had been
misunderstood, and she could not be blamed for his death, however much
she was to benefit by it. God would not hold her accountable.

Could she then believe that she was guiltless in God's sight? Alas! on
second thoughts she dared not affirm it. She was guiltless only in the
way that she had been guiltless of Athelwold's murder; had she not
rejoiced at the part she had had in that act? Athelwold had deserved his
fate, and she had never repented that deed, nor