They had almost finished their task, and were about to separate, when St. Frideswide's bell tolled the first hour of the morning (one o'clock).
"We are very late," said the lady Hilda, as well she might, for our ancestors generally retired early, as they rose early; and they bade each other goodnight.
"Happy, happy Ethelgiva!" said the mother as she kissed her darling, not without a maternal sigh, for she felt as if she were losing her only child, who had for so many a year been the light of their woodland home--her only child, who had filled not simply her own place in their affections, but as far as she might the place of the loved Bertric.
But the kiss was suspended. The whole party stood silent and breathless; for a loud and bitter cry, as of one in extreme anguish, broke upon the silence of the night.
Ethelgiva uttered but one word as she bounded towards the staircase, for she knew the voice:
"Alfgar!"
[CHAPTER XXIII]. WHO HATH DONE THIS DEED?
Alfgar never saw his beloved lord enter his chamber with a look of greater weariness than he bore that night.
"It has been a hard fight, old friend," said the familiar king, "but we have conquered; for my part, I would far sooner have stood out against him, battle-axe in hand, than have met this struggle, could I have foreseen it beforehand; but now I have given him the kiss of peace, peace it must be; he has no more to dread from me."
"Nor you from him, I trust."