Up and up flowed the tide. The sea gulls had had their feast of crabs, and were screaming overhead. The wretched man's eyeballs were starting from his head; his head was sunk between his shoulders. Up and up crept the tide. The lobworms had ceased to pile their little heaps; the crabs were playfully scampering to meet the crawling froth, pushed further and further with each succeeding wavelet.
No hope! the water has reached his chin; the slimy froth and scum of the mud forms a collar round the doomed man's neck. One more prodigious effort, one despairing, gasping heave. No good! The hands are clasped over the mouth, with the instinct of self-preservation, even in inevitable death; but the water knows no barrier. The froth bubbles up, it is on a level with the lower lip, each wave and ripple washes higher, now the mouth is covered. With a desperate wrench, the gasping man raises his mouth above the water, but, unable to keep up the strain, his head sinks again, and this time the cruel water has reached the nose. The head falls down, a few bubbles, a little brown patch, hardly to be distinguished from seaweed, around which the yellow froth laps in the ripple, is all that marks where a strong man has died. Soon even that will have disappeared, and the place that knew him shall know him no more.
The sea had been washing round the raft for some minutes, but the water-soaked logs were heavy, and had been sucked into the mud. The drowned man's head had been entirely covered before the awkward structure showed any signs of lifting. Indeed, the water was nearly floating over it, and the South Saxon had begun to dread a similar death to that of his comrade, when the raft gave a lurch, and once more was afloat. The man had no oars, or anything to propel it with; but as the other boat would be afloat also before many minutes, they would come and pick him up.
Presently the idea occurred to him to push the raft with one leg on the bottom; in this way, and with a favouring tide he was enabled at last to reach his companions.
The Eorldoman Berchthune was very sullen, and greeted the man with violent abuse for not having made more haste at first; and this was all the misguided ceorl got for having volunteered on a perilous enterprise: for having been face to face with death, and that almost the slowest, most lingering, which could happen to man. But then in those days what were men made for but for death?
The tide had now risen high enough to float the boat. Berchthune was about to give orders to shove her off the bank, when a horseman galloping hastily down the shingle on the shore, and riding his horse as far out as he dared, shouted to the boat:
"Cædwalla has been made king of Wessex, and is marching upon us."
There was now no thought of pursuing Ædric. Orders were instantly given to turn the boat's head towards Boseham again, and it was not long before they reached its little quay. There the horseman met them, having ridden his horse at full speed, and then Berchthune learnt fuller particulars of the startling news.
Cædwalla was only a day's march distant, advancing with a powerful force of West Saxon eorls, and his own veteran band of faithful followers, no longer outlaws, but honoured friends of the king. He was burning to avenge his last defeat and reassert his claim to the throne of the South Saxons.
This was grave news. Berchthune mounted his horse and rode off at once towards Cissanceaster, directing his followers to come after him as soon as possible.