Anlaf appeared and stood beside his son.
"Alfgar," he said, "the day after tomorrow is the day of St. Brice."
He paused and looked steadfastly in the face of his son.
"And the king proposes to enrol you amongst his chosen warriors on that day; he has marked the skill you have displayed in the mimic contests with spear or sword, your skill as a horseman, and he wishes to see whether in actual battle you will fulfil the promise of the parade ground."
"And yet he knows my faith."
"Alfgar," said the old man solemnly, "you must renounce it or die; no mercy will be shown to a Christian on St. Brice's day; that is why the king has chosen it. Think, my son, over all I have told you; you will decide like one who yet controls his senses, and not disgrace your aged father."
"Father, I do think of you," said the poor lad; "at least believe that. I do not grieve for myself. I feel I could easily die for my faith, but I do grieve over the pain I must cause you."
The heart of the old warrior was sensibly affected by this appeal, but not knowing the strength of Christian principle, he could not reconcile it with facts, and he walked sadly away.
But two days, and the dread choice had to be made--the crisis in the life of Alfgar, a crisis which has its parallel in the lives of many around us--approached, and he had to choose between Christ and Odin, between the death of the martyr and apostasy.
He walked to and fro upon the ramparts, after his father left him, in the growing darkness, feebly illuminated by the light of a new moon. Below him, in the central area, a huge fire burned, whereat the evening meal was preparing for the royal banquet, for Sweyn and his ferocious chieftains were about to feast together.