“It is the old sea-king, Sidroc, ‘the ancient one of evil days;’ mark him, as he bestrides his black war-horse, there by the old twisted thorn. His heavy sword drips with blood, his sword-arm is steeped in blood to the elbow—the dint of long and fierce battle is on horse and man; but the straight thin lips are set like flint in the midst of that gray beard, and the eyes glow and gleam under that fearful brow—eyes that have never quailed before conquering foe, or softened to the fallen—lips that have never opened to say the word ‘Spare.’ By his side the young Sidroc, grim son of grim sire. Ashdown crows must feast on those eyes, and Ashdown wolves pick those bones, if the Pagans are to be beaten this day. Round them rally the Danes as they are driven up the slope. Again and again the advancing Saxons reel back from the stunted thorn, before the shock of the two Boersirkir. He comes! it is the sickly prince, the stripling on the white horse, trampling fetlock-deep in blood. Round him a chosen band of yellow-bearded men of Wessex. One moment’s pause, and they meet in a last death-grapple. Bite, Saxon blade; pierce, Saxon spear! Think of your homes, my countrymen; think of the walls of Reading, of Ethelwulf and his last war-cry, ‘Our commander, Christ, is braver than they!’ The black horse is down; young Sidroc springs over the brute, lashing out in death agony, and covers his father. His head is cleft to the chin—a half-armed gaunt cowherd drives his spear through the chest of the old sea-king. Away over their bodies up the hill go white horse, and stripling prince, and yellow-bearded men; rushing through the camp gate, scrambling over the banks pell-mell with the flying Pagan. The camp is ours; now slay while light is left—for there is no shelter for a Pagan between this and Reading. ‘Then were the horse-hoofs broken by the means of the prancings, of the prancings of their mighty ones. Oh my soul, thou hast trodden down strength!’”
The old gentleman stopped at last, and took off his hat and wiped his face, and then looked down at me as if he were half-ashamed—
“I see you think I’m mad—” he began.
“Indeed, sir—” said I, stammering a little.
“Well, well! never mind,” he said; “the fact is, I live a good deal in those old times. I’ve been up here, and sat and gone over the fight so often, that when I get on the hill-side, I think I saw it all. In the autumn evenings at twilight, when the southwest wind blows wild, and the mist comes drifting over the broad downs, many a time, as I have stolen down the silent hill-side, I have seen the weird old Pagan king and the five earls, sitting one on each of the giants’ seats, and looking mournfully out over the Vale, waiting—waiting—waiting for a thousand years, all but fourteen. It’s a long time, sir, a long time; but you and I may have to wait for a longer over the scene of some of our doings. Who can say?”
I really now did begin to think the old gentleman a little crazy, so I said nothing. Presently he went on in his old quiet voice:—
“There, now I have dismounted my hobby, and am sane again. I live in a wild, lonely part of the world down west, and for the last thirty years have read little else but the Bible, and books 200 years old and upwards. Every man has his madness—that’s mine—I don’t get a chance of letting it out once a-year. I have spent a very pleasant day with you, Sir; and if you ever come down to these parts again, and like to come on and see me, I shall be very glad. There is my name and address;” and he gave me his card, but he didn’t say that I might publish it.
“Thank you, Sir,” said I, putting it into my pocket-book; “but I hope you will be up on the hill to-morrow?”
“Yes, I shall just ride up,” he said, “to see how they have used my old friend; he wanted scouring sadly. The games I don’t much care about, though I’m glad they go on. But not one man in a thousand who will be on the hill to-morrow will know what the meaning of it all is; and that makes it a melancholy sight to me, Sir, on the whole.”