So to the abode of Guthrum were they taken. The king sat on his high seat at meat when the warden spake to him:
“A Saxon minstrel is without, good king. The strings he touches with a master’s hand; and as he plays the maiden with him sings to his harp tales of heroes and brave deeds. Fair is she, and rarely well doth she sing. In sooth, the tricks the gleeman gives are good also.”
“Then let them enter,” said the king. “Heavy lieth the heart of Guthrum in his breast for darkness hath settled over him, and he feareth evil to come.”
“Enter, minstrel. My lord’s heart is heavy, ease it with thy art,” and the warder conducted them into the hall where Guthrum sat with his jarls.
“Strike thy harp, skald,” said Guthrum, “and choose some lay that will lighten the shadow which the death goddess, Hela, hath thrown over my soul. For to-night, Guthrum sitteth in darkness.”
Alfred gazed in compassion on the noble countenance and broad forehead of the Dane before him. A wish to ease the burthen which evidently oppressed him by infusing into his soul some of that comfort which never failed, filled him. Striking his harp with a strong twang of the strings after the fashion of harpers, he exclaimed loudly, “Hwaet!” (what). The clamour of the surrounding voices was hushed instantly and he began to sing.
“Tis a Christian hymn, skald. Hast not something gayer? Some song of the deeds of thy heroes or ours? Once were Saxon and Dane brothers from the same Alfadur, but now hath the Saxon forsaken his gods.”
“Brothers they be still under the All-father,” returned Alfred. “Brothers, Guthrum, in stronger bonds than those of yore. And brother’s hand should not be lifted against brother.”
“Thy harp,” said Guthrum impatiently. “’Tis music I crave, not thy words.”
Again did the king sing, and this time accompanied by the maiden. Guthrum raised his hand.