"It is not the lowly blade of grass the storm lays low, but the lofty wheatstalk."
"True; but who would have thought of thee being the only one left to care for our master? Thou art a better woman, Deva, than I took thee for."
"Ceolwulf," said the invisible Ælfhere, "stand not prating there, but come here that I may see thee, and hear tidings of my sons, if they yet live."
The woman Deva took up a half-burnt brand from the fire, and going before Ceolwulf to light him, pointed to a rude couch made of a few skins.
On this lay a wasted form, the lower limbs swathed in bandages, and a blood-stained cloth around the head. The face was ghastly white, and an unkempt and grizzly beard spread over the chest.
"My lord, my lord, it is thou of a surety; but how art thou changed!" cried Ceolwulf.
"Speak not of that, man; tell me of my boys."
"They are well, my lord, and one is not far hence."
"Not a prisoner in the hands of the traitor Arwald? Tell me not that; anything but that!"
"No, my lord, not so bad as that. He is safe among a trusty band of men who have come to win for thee thine own again."