From the courtyard—the green of the castle—the sun was no longer visible; but the watchman on the top of the keep saw him from that giddy height descending like a ball of fire towards Cwichelm's Hlawe. It was his to give the signal when the sun sank behind the hill.
Every window was full—every coigne of vantage to see the sight. Alas! human nature is ever the same. Witness the precincts of the Old Bailey on hanging mornings in our grandfathers' days!
The man on the keep saw the sun actually touch the trees on the summit of the distant hill, and bathe them in fiery light. Another minute and all would be over.
In the intense silence, the galloping of a horse was heard—a horse strong and powerful. Down went the drawbridges.
The man on the keep saw, and omitted to give the signal, as the sun disappeared.
"Hold! hold!" cried a commanding voice.
It was Brian on his foaming steed. He looked as none had ever seen him look before; but joy was on his face.
He was in time, and no more.
"Take him to my chamber, priest; executioner, put up thine axe, there will be no work for it to-day. Men of Wallingford, Osric is my son—my own son—the son of my bowels. I cannot spare you my son. Thank God, I am in time."