The Prior's heart glowed in hope renewed.
'Sursum corda,' he murmured, then recommenced his litany.
'De Saevitia Teutonorum qui veniunt in pandis myoparonibus, libera nos, Domine!'
Scarce had he finished, when a startled brother approached rapidly a-tiptoe and touched the Prior gently on the shoulder.
'They come, Holy Prior! They come! the cruel heathen can be seen swiftly approaching in their long ships.'
Prior Olaf turned ashen pale. He could not prevent a groan escaping him, for now he knew that his penances had not yet proved effectual.
'Mea culpa, mea culpa,' he murmured wearily, then as he rose up with pale cheek a gleam of fire lit in his eye, for he would die rather than permit Saint Oswyn's shrine to be pillaged by the heathen. He called for the sub-Prior and entrusted the defence to him.
The cell was splendidly situated, being protected on the three sides—east, north, and west—by moat, steep cliffs, and the immediate sea.
To the south or land side a strong wall with gate tower, furnished with parapet and brettices for casting down of stones and melted lead, stood sentinel and protector.
The sub-Prior—the light of battle in his eye—gave orders to his affrighted flock, and bade the Conversi (lay brethren) heat the lead and carry up big stones to the brettices, where he himself took command. Thereupon he looked down upon the serpent ships sailing into the mouth of the Tyne, and on the sands below discharging their freight of long-haired men with bucklers, swords, and torches in their hands.