The door was not opened; probably those within feared to excite the king; and the chamberlain whispered to Edmund:
"He is in delirium, his ravings are very painful."
"I hear," said Edmund; "how long has he been in this state?"
"Only a few hours, and he has constantly imagined that men, who are long since dead, were about him; especially he calls upon Dunstan, then upon St. Brice, then he calls for his son-in-law, Edric."
"Ah, Edric!"
"Yes; but Edric is with Canute, I hear."
"I wish he were with Satan, in his own place," said Edmund, fiercely, forgetting all Christian charity at the hated name.
"It is devoutly to be wished; but he is quiet, we may enter now."
The king, exhausted by his own violent emotions, lay back upon the bed, which occupied the centre of the room, surmounted by a wooden canopy, richly carved, from which curtains depended on either side.
His face, which time and evil passions had deeply wrinkled, was of a deadly paleness; his eyes were encircled by a livid tint, and stared as if they would start from their orbits; his breathing was rapid and interrupted, but at the moment when Edmund entered he was silent. Standing on his left hand, wiping the perspiration from his brow, was Emma, the queen, her face yet comely, and bearing trace of that beauty which had once earned her the title of the "Pearl of Normandy." Her evident solicitude and loving care was the one picture of the room upon which the eye could rest with most contentment.