For Cwichelm's Hlawe.
It is a wonder that he was not thrown over and over again; but chance often protects the reckless while the careful die. He rides through the forest over loose stones—over protruding roots of trees—still he kept his seat; he flew like the whirlwind, but he escaped projecting branches. In an hour he was ascending the slope from Chiltune to the summit of the hill.
He reined his panting steed at the foot of the barrow.
"Hag, come forth!"
No reply.
He tied up his steed to a tree and entered her dread abode—the ancient sepulchre.
She sat over the open stone coffin with its giant skeleton.
"Here thou art then, witch!"
"What does Brian Fitz-Count want of me?"
"I seek thee as Saul sought the Witch of Endor—in dire trouble. The boy, old Sexwulf's grandson"—he could not frame his lips to say Wulfnoth's son—"has proved false to me."