"Why, it is Ædric, my own son—my boy! my boy! I thank the gods thou art returned to me. There, bless thee, my son; sit down and tell me all that has happened to thee."
And Ædric sat down, and, taking his father's hand, told him everything. As the old eorldoman heard of the kindness of the monks or baldheaded ones, and the splendour and power of Wilfrid, he murmured over and over again:
"Truly these are great men, and they know more than we. They can bear pain as well as we can, and they can rule without fighting; but I think they miss a good deal by that. But perhaps, after all, there is more to be got without it. I don't know though; if I get better, I will think over this."
CHAPTER XXIII.
"THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE MATTER."
A few days after the decisive battle near Chillerton Down, Ædric, who had been sitting with Malachi and the invalids, went out to get some fresh air. He wandered up the hill behind the homestead to a freshly-raised mound on the hill side, looking away towards the Sussex shore, and commanding views of the far distant Andreadesweald. Here Athelhune had been buried, with his arms and battle-axe, like a free Saxon eorldoman, with his face towards the East, looking to the woods and the land where he had fought so well for his friend and king, Cædwalla, in the time of his adversity.
Ædric sat down on the newly-laid turf, and gazed towards Selsea. As he sat he fell into a deep reverie. He thought over all that had passed since that awful night when Arwald surprised their home, and he and Wulfstan and Biggun had had to fly over the water, they knew not where. He thought of the fearful slaughter that had since taken place; the dreadful suffering of the poor people, driven from their homes; the death in battle, in cold blood, and in misery of so many human beings. He saw how poverty, hunger, wretchedness, fell upon every one by the perpetual destruction going on. Cædwalla was nearly dead; Ceolwulf was prostrate; Wulfstan was only just showing signs of recovery; brother Malachi had received a desperate wound; Athelhune and Osborn were dead; and Wulf the Atheling might be dead, too, for all he knew; while his father, Ælfhere, as well as himself, would bear their wounds to their graves with them. And yet they and their party were victorious. They had won all the glory, all the land, all the wealth; and this was what their noblest, most cherished ideas pointed to. Could anything be more complete? Arwald was dead; all his bravest warriors were dead too, and all the rest of his supporters were being ruthlessly hunted down and slain. They were drinking to the full the cup of victory. Could anything be more triumphant? What more could heroes do? They had gloriously chopped in pieces their enemies, and were entering into possession of their goods. But meanwhile the people were mostly starving, and the women and children were suffering terribly; but
"Things like that, you know, must be at every famous victory."
And then Ædric thought of the monks—their kindness, their simplicity, their total surrender of themselves for others, their perpetual striving to conquer what, he could not help seeing, might make an individual great according to a slave's idea of greatness, but could only make all others miserable. For what was it the monks strove to overcome? Certainly nothing of anybody else's belongings, but their own passions, their own want of charity, their own worldly desires, their own incomprehension of the love of God; in fact, the world, the flesh, and the devil. And then he thought of the dead man below him, and he remembered all that had been told him of the shortness of this life and the certainty of death, and after death the judgment; and he remembered how terrible it had seemed to him, as Father Dicoll talked, if he should die, and have to enter upon eternity without having tried to follow the Christ-life while here on earth. The words of the Master, Christ, had often been told him, when He said, "Verily, I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me; and these shall go away into ever-lasting punishment, but the righteous into life eternal." Truly, death was very near; would it not be better to give up everything for the love of God? What could the world offer to him that for the brief space of this life could make up for the loss of life eternal? The truth of the question he had so often heard from brother Corman came back to him—What would it profit him if he gained the whole world and lost his own soul? or what could he give in exchange for his soul?
As Ædric thought over all these things, his eyes were fixed upon a distant speck beyond the entrance to Brædynge Haven. It was a boat, and was coming fast before the north-east breeze. For some few minutes he dreamily watched it. He saw it enter the narrow mouth of the harbour, and wondered who could be in it. The men on board evidently knew the channel. As the boat drew nearer his interest increased. "Who could it be?" And then it flashed across him that it must be Wilfrid. He jumped up with excitement, waited a minute to make certain, and then ran down as fast as he could, burst into the room where Malachi was, and shouted out the news.