“Thou mayst yet live, my son,” he said; “tell me where is thy home; is it in Mercia?”
“It is! it is! My home is Æscendune; it is not far from here.”
“Æscendune—knowest thou Father Cuthbert?”
“I do indeed; he was my tutor, once my spiritual father.”
“Thy name?”
“Elfric, son of the thane Ella.”
The monk started, then raised a loud cry, which speedily brought two or three men in the dress of thralls (theows) to his side.
“She will murder no more, father; the dog overtook her, and held her till we came; she was red with blood, and we knocked her down; Oswy here brained her with his club.”
“It is well—she deserved her fate; but, Oswy, look at this face.”
“St. Wilfred preserve us!” cried the man “it is the young lord. He is not dying, is he? She hadn’t hurt him—the she-wolf?”