Did the reader ever meet that story in St. Augustine's Confessions, of a young Christian taken against his will to see the bloody sports of the amphitheatre. His companions dragged him thither, he said they might have his body, but he shut his eyes and stopped his ears until a louder shout than usual pierced through the auricular protection—one moment of curiosity, he opened his eyes, he saw the victor thrust the trident into the palpitating body of the vanquished, the demon of blood-thirstiness seized him, he shouted too, and afterwards sought those cruel scenes from choice, until the grace of God stopped him.
So now with our Osric.
He felt no desire at first to join the mêlée, indeed, he knew how helpless he was; but as he gazed a strange, wild longing came over him, he felt inclined, nay, could hardly restrain himself from rushing in; but his promise to stay on the hill prevailed over him: perhaps it was hereditary inclination.
But after all was over, he saw Alain wiping his bloody sword as he laughed with savage glee.
"Look, Osric, I killed one—see the blood."
Instead of being shocked, as a good boy should have been, Osric envied him, and determined to spend all the time he possibly could in mastering the art of jousting and fencing.
They now rode on, leaving twenty of their own dead on the plain, and forty of the enemy; but, as Napoleon afterwards said—"You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs."
And now, alas, the eggs were human lives—men made in the image of God—too little accounted of in those days.
They now passed Letcombe Castle,—a huge circular camp with trench and vallum, capable of containing an army; it was of the old British times, and the mediæval warriors grimly surveyed this relic of primæval war. Below there lay the town of Wantage,—then strongly walled around,—the birthplace of Alfred. Three more miles brought them to the Blowing Stone, above Kingston Lisle, another relic of hoar antiquity; and Alain, who had been there before, amused Osric by producing that deep hollow roar, which in earlier days had served to alarm the neighbourhood, as he blew into the cavity.
Now the ridgeway bore straight to the highest summit of the whole range,—the White Horse Hill,—and here they all dismounted, and tethering their horses, prepared to refresh man and beast. Poor Osric was terribly sore and stiff, and could not even walk gracefully; he was still able to join Alain in his laughter, but with less grace than at first.