Egwina controlled herself by a great effort. The priests, taking turns, dug a grave with Wulfhere’s seax. Then they approached the remains. With loving hands, the maiden herself re-arranged the garments of the dead man, taking the bag of valuables from his person.
“Take this for the soul sceat,” she said, giving it into the hands of the priests.
“But, daughter, it is too much,” and the priests looked at each other, wondering at the amount. “Keep part for thine own use.”
“I want it not,” answered she, weeping softly. “Let it bring him as many prayers as it will, good fathers.”
Reverently the body was laid within the excavation, and then Egwina brought his harp.
“Bury it with him,” she said.
“Nay, daughter; it savors too much of heathenism,” said one much scandalized. “Do not the pagans so, and the bard was a Christian?”
“True,” said the girl through her tears. “True, good fathers, but granther loved it so. I could not bear that other than he should use it. And if it so be, as ye tell us, that we will sing praises in the heavenly land then will he have need of it.”
The priests were touched, yet still they hesitated. It savored so much of the heathenish custom of the Danes they were loth to consent to the act; yet did they mislike to deprive the maiden of this small comfort.
“See,” said the girl showing them the mutilated strings. “When they would have taken it from him to use it in praise of Guthrum, he cut the strings rather than have it so defiled. If the harp be left, we wot not but that some of the Northmen may find it and use it. Grandfather could not rest if that were to happen. Always it hath been with him. It was his friend, his glee-beam. I know that he will be lonely without it.”