"Well, we come from Wihtea, over there, and have been in a good deal of trouble," said Ceolwulf, hoping to mollify his interrogator; "and when we got to Boseham we found some queer sort of men, who gave us some bread, and we thought we would go out and get something better to eat, for there seems no heart left in those South Saxons to help themselves."
"Thou art in the right there, my man. Since the yellow plague all spirit has gone out of them, and they care to do nothing now but die—which, after all, isn't so bad, if thou diest with thine axe in the skull of thine enemy, but any other way is disgraceful," from which remark it was clear that this man was a philosopher in his way, although somewhat crude in his ideas.
"And whose boy is this? He isn't thy son, I'll be bound. An old wooden head like thee couldn't have a son like that," said another man.
"Let me stand out there with my axe, and I'll soon show thee whether my head is any more wooden than thine, thou young Weala!"
"He has called me a Weala," cried the young man to the others. "He belongs to me to punish; let me have him out here, that I may split his old timber skull."
"No, no," said the older man. "We have got to have our dinner first, and, I think, as he has provided it, he ought to be asked to share it."
"But thou hast not told us who the boy is, old man."
"He is the son of a noble eorldoman in Wihtea."
"What, Arwald's son?" cried the man with eagerness.
"Now I wish I knew whether he wanted him to be his son or not," thought Ceolwulf. Then he added, "Dost thou know Arwald, then?"