“Look not always for a sign, daughter,” reproved Alfred. “Well hath the vision served, if it but raise our courage. ’Twas induced by the blessing of the poor man. I would that he had remained with us, for it is chill and raw without. I wot that he was some holy man. Whatever he be, little doth he reck how he hath blessed us in return for the poor food which we gave.”
“But still do I wish for Edward’s return,” declared Ethelfleda in a low tone to Egwina. “Supper will there not be unless the fish be taken. I am hungry. Art thou not, Egwina?”
“Not since I have seen that poor man eat,” replied the maiden. “He ate as if naught had passed his lips for days.”
Just then came the tramp of many feet from without.
“Open, father,” cried the voice of Edward. “Open and see what I have brought thee.”
Ethelfleda flew to the door before Alfred could move, and threw it open.
“Welcome, welcome, Edward! What dost thou bring? Oh, father, see the fish!”
“Enough to feed an army,” and he laughed as the Saxons tried to bring them in, for it was truly a great take. “Blessed be St. Wilfrid, who taught the Saxons to fish! He must have been with us to-day.”
“No, son; a greater than Wilfrid was with thee,” said Alfred solemnly, a joyous light shining in his eyes. “Wonderful hath been thy catch, and wonderful, too, hath been our experience.”
“Let us have a feast,” cried the practical Ethelfleda; “hungry must ye be, good people, and hungry am I also. Art thou not now, Egwina?”