"Father," I said, "the Danes have taken the king."
"Then must I bide here, and pray and scheme for his release."
Now I knew not how to tell him all, but at last I said:
"Eadmund the king has escaped from the hands of the heathen."
At that the bishop looked long at me, judging perhaps what I meant, by my voice. But the monks rejoiced openly, at first, until they saw what was meant also, and then they trembled.
"Where is he?" he asked, speaking low.
"Father," I said, "this twentieth day of November will be the day when England shall honour a new martyr. Eadmund the King is numbered among them."
"How died he?" then said the bishop, folding his hands.
But now the monks bade him fly, and reasoned with and prayed him. But he bade them save themselves, for that there would be work for them to do among the heathen.
"As for me, I am an old man," he said, "and I would fain go the same road as the king."