“Now what?” asked the lady of Wulfhere.
“We must not stay here,” answered he. “After the slaughter comes the flame. The Dane will apply the torch as is his wont. Let us to the king.”
“The king! Alack!” Elswitha cried in sudden terror. “Where is he? I fear, oh, I fear that he hath fallen into the hands of Guthrum.”
“Where went he?” asked Wulfhere.
“To Malmesbury to determine the limits of some bocland. Were he living, he would have been here ere this. Oh, I fear, I fear!”
Moaning, she drew her little ones to her while the others looked at her compassionately. At this moment a mighty shout rose from without the castle walls.
“The king! The king!”
The clash of steel, the shouts and cries which now broke forth with renewed vigor, showed that the king had indeed come. Elswitha sprang to her feet, her face transfigured with joy.
“God be praised!” she cried. “It is my lord. Now, my children, ye are in sooth safe. O thank God! Thank God!”
But even as she spoke, the door fell inward with a crash, and the Northmen burst into the room. Wulfhere drew his seax, and threw himself in front of the women and children. The youths—Edward and the cup-bearer—ranged themselves beside him.