“Ragnar!” said he, “What fiend has told them that? how came they to suspect? Confusion! it will foil all my plans, and my vengeance will be incomplete. At least this one victim must not escape, and yet I had sooner he should escape than any other member of the house. Poor boy! the sins of the fathers are heavy upon the children, as these Christians have it; but my oath, my oath taken before a dying father! no; he must die!”
So spake the avenger of blood, a man whose heart was evidently not all of iron; yet from childhood had he striven to restrain every tender impulse, and had bound himself to vengeance. Long years of peace in England had come between him and the execution of his projects, and he had prepared himself for the task he never lost sight of, by acquiring all the accomplishments of a knight and warrior, and even of a man of letters, at that court of Rouen, now rapidly becoming the focus of European chivalry, where the fierce barbarian Northmen were becoming the refined but ruthless Normans. Then, in England, he had wormed himself into the confidence of the future king with singular astuteness, and at length had found the occasion he had long sought, in a manner the most unforeseen save as a possible contingency.
And now he turned from the battlements to his own chamber, but on the way he paused, for he passed the door of the late thane’s room, where poor Elfric lay. He passed the sentinel and entered. The unhappy boy was extended on the bed, in a raging fever; ever and anon he called piteously upon his father, then he cried out that Dunstan was pursuing him, driving him into the pit, then he cried—“Father, I did not murder thee; not I, thy son! nay, I always loved thee in my heart. Who is laughing? it is not Dunstan; break his chamber open, slay him: is a monk’s blood redder than a peasant’s? O Elgiva hast thou slain my father? See, I am all on fire; it is thy doing. Edwy, my king, Dunstan is burning me: save me!”
Then there was a long pause, and Redwald or Ragnar as we may now call him stood over his unhappy cousin. The fair head lay back on the pillow, with its profusion of golden locks; the face was red and fiery, the eyes weak and bloodshot.
“Water! water! I burn!” he said.
There was no cooling medicine to alleviate the burning throat, no gentle hand to smooth the pillow, no mother to render the sweet offices of maternal love, no father to whisper forgiveness to the dying boy.
“Better he should die thus,” said Ragnar, “since I cannot spare him without breaking my oath to the dead.”
Then he left the room hastily, as if he feared his own resolution. The sentinel looked imploringly at him, as the cries of the revellers came from below.
“Go!” said Ragnar, “join thy companions; no sentinel is required here. Go and feast; I will come and join you.”
So he tried to drown his new-born pity in wine.