Alfred, her eldest son--for Edmund was the offspring of an early amour of the king--was on the other side of the bed, a well-made youth, combining in his features the haughty bearing of his Norman maternal ancestors with the English traits of his father; but now his expression was one of distress and anxiety, which was yet more deeply shared by his younger brother, Edward, who even at this period manifested that strong sense of religious obligation and that early devotion which in later years caused him to be numbered amongst canonised saints.
He knelt at the bedside, and his hand grasped the cold damp hand of his sire, as if he would strengthen him by his sympathy.
"O father," he cried; "neglect not longer to make your peace with a long-suffering God; even in this eleventh hour He will not reject the penitent."
He was interrupted by the entrance of Edmund, his half-brother, whom he feared, because he could not understand so different a nature.
"Our father has long pined for you," he said, in a timid voice; "I fear you are too late, and that he will hardly know you."
"I have ridden from Aescendune day and night since the news of his danger was brought me.
"Father," he said, as he bent over the bed, "do you not know me?"
The dying man raised himself up and looked him full in the face, and a look of recognition came slowly.
"Edmund!" he said, "I am so glad, you will protect me; take your battle-axe, you are strong. Sigeferth and Morcar, whom Edric slew at Oxford, have been here, and they said they would come back and drag me with them to some judgment seat; now take thine axe, Edmund, my son, and slay them when they enter; they want killing again."
A look of indescribable pain passed over the features of Edmund.