The door opened, and Edward left the room after a conference with the physician, who sat in a corner of the room compounding drugs at a small table; a few minutes passed in silence, when he returned and held the door open for the bishop of London, who entered, bearing the viaticum, as the last communion of the sick was then called, and attended by an acolyte, who bore a lighted taper before him and carried a bell.
The king rose up in his bed, glared fixedly at the prelate, and then shrieked aloud:
"St. Brice! St. Brice! art thou come again? What dost thou glare at me for? 'Twas not I who defiled thy festival with blood. It was Edric, Edric! Why does he not come to answer for his own sin?"
"If he did, I would brain him," muttered Edmund.
"There! do not glare upon me. Hast thou brought me the blood of the victims to drink? Ah! there is Gunhilda. What right hast thou to complain if I slew thee, which I did not, at least not with my own hands: thy brother Sweyn has slain thousands. I did not at least kill my father; I have only disgraced his name, as you will say.
"O Edmund! Edmund! protect me."
"My son," said the bishop, in a deep calm voice, which seemed to still the ravings of the king, "think of thy sins, repent, confess; the Church hath power to loose in her Lord's name, Who came to save sinners."
"Yes, father, heed him," said Edward. "Father, you are dying, the leech says; you have not a day to live. Waste not the precious hours."
The patient sank back upon his bed, and for a few minutes only the sound of his breathing could be heard; the difficulty with which he drew his breath seemed to increase each moment.
The bishop held the crucifix before his eyes.