Upon the north-east horizon stood the two twin clumps of Synodune, about ten miles off; he fixed his eyes upon them; beyond them lay Dorchester; he descended the hill at a dangerous pace, and made for those landmarks.
He rode through Harwell—passed the future site of Didcot Station, where locomotives now hiss and roar—he left the north Moor-town on the right—he crossed the valley between the twin hills—he swam the river, for the water was high at the ford—he passed the gates of the old cathedral city. Every one trembled as they saw him, and hid from his presence. He dismounted at the abbey gates.
The porter hesitated to open.
"I have come to see Father Alphege—open!"
"This is not Wallingford Castle," said the daring porter, strong in monastic immunities.
Brian remembered where he was, and sobered down.
"Then I would fain see the Abbot at once: life or death hang upon it."
"Thou mayst enter the hospitium and wait his pleasure."
He waited nearly half an hour. They kept him on purpose, to show him that he was not the great man at Dorchester he was at Wallingford. But they were unwittingly cruel; they knew not his need.
Meanwhile the Abbot sought Father Alphege, and told him who sought him.