“No,” said Alfred, with a quick, old-fashioned look. “We cannot do that, boys.”
“Come, that’s bravely spoken, Alfred, boy; I like that,” said the jarl, leaning down from his horse to pat the youngest boy on the shoulder. “Look here, if I come back safely after beating the Danes I’ll bring you one of their winged helmets for a prize.”
“You will?” cried Alfred.
“I promise you I will, my boy,” cried the big Saxon noble, “and trophies for your brothers too.—There, we must go on. Good-bye, my brave boys. Give them a shout, my lads.”
The men waved sword and spear in the air as they marched off and Alfred and his brothers stood watching them till the last twinkling spear had disappeared in the distance, and then the boys turned away with a sigh.
“Oh, I wish I was a man!” said Alfred sadly.
“No use to wish,” said the next brother. “Here, let’s go on down the stream to get some fish.”
The disappointment was soon forgotten, and the boys dashed off downhill as hard as they could go, neither of them hearing a shout, nor seeing the little monk come panting up, to stand gazing ruefully after them and wiping the great drops of perspiration off his face and head.
“Oh, dear!” he said; “it’s a fine thing to be young and strong, and—”