All the imperfections of his character now faded away; he seemed so brave, yet so loving, so invincible in combat, yet so gentle and forgiving, as he had shown in forgiving even--even--even-- said Alfgar to his own wounded bleeding heart--even in forgiving his murderer. For in his eyes it was Edric, and none but Edric, who had done this deed.
But a terrible suspicion of a very opposite nature was rapidly assuming sway in other men's minds.
A council met before daybreak--the reeve or mayor, the chief burgesses, two or three thanes then in the town, the officers of the royal guard, Elfwyn, Herstan, and Edric. After a few preliminaries Edric rose and spake as follows:
"We have met together under the most awful responsibility which could fall upon subjects. Edmund, our king, has been murdered, and by whom we know not."
All were silent.
"I grieve to say," he continued, "that there is but one upon whom our suspicions can now fall with any shadow of probability-- one who is now absent, for I thought it well not to summon him to this council; and before naming him, I must recall to you, Elfwyn, and to you, Herstan, the solemn oath we have all three taken to disregard all appeals of natural affection, and to ascertain the truth, God being our helper."
"We have."
"We have," said they with bursting hearts, for they foresaw what accusation Edric was about to bring.
"I grieve, then, to say," he continued, "that this natural affection must be bitterly tried, for there is but one to whom my words can apply. Meanwhile, I will put a few questions. With whose dagger was the deed committed?"
"Alfgar's," replied those who had been there the previous night.