Chapter VII: Part 7

"Part of what thou sayest is not devoid of truth, and to the weak nature of man, who does not understand divine mysteries, it certainly seems to be a fine thing to be up and doing, to protect from wrong those who are too weak to protect themselves; but I think more is done in this world by the example of Christian meekness and heavenly wisdom, than by all the blows struck by earthly arms even in a just quarrel. What said our Lord Himself? 'If he smite thee on one cheek, offer to him the other also'; and again: 'Put up thy sword into his place, for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.' To fight with carnal weapons has always seemed to me to show an utter want of faith. Look at the Christian religion: it grew not by the power of earthly grandeur, but by the blood of the blessed martyrs. Through three centuries almost they died one after the other, until at last men came to see that killing would not stop the faith, but that, like a fabled monster, from each death a thousand more believers sprung up. It was the beauty of holiness that captivated the world at last, not the victory of Constantine: that was but the effect of the growth of Christianity, not the cause of its universal acceptance. But there was one part of thy remark, AEdric, that was wholly wrong: it is not a glorious thing to die or to live fighting for one's own; for what is thine own? Is anything thou hast thine own?"

"My life is, my clothes are, lots of things are."

"What dost thou consider thine own to mean?"

"Why, what _is_ my own, what I can give away, keep to myself if I like; that nobody else can have or take away from me; that I can destroy, do what I like with, of course."

"Well, that is what most people understand by their own. But think if that is the correct description of what is thine own. Is thy life thine own? Canst thou keep it to thyself? Can nobody else take it away from thee? Thou canst certainly destroy it, or give it away, and therein lies the responsibility of ownership, which I will talk about later on, if we have time. But is it not the same with all that thou hast got? Cannot everything be taken from thee that thou hast? Dost thou not see that thou art entirely at the mercy of some over-ruling Power? If, then, thou wouldst fight for what thou callest thine own when anybody comes or wishes to take it away from thee, to save one thing thou wilt most likely lose another. Even if thou succeedest thou art certain to be the worse off; for no one would attempt to take away the goods of another unless he were pretty nearly equal to the other in strength, or some other quality; while he would not attack thee unless he thought he were superior to thee, or had a good chance of succeeding. Is it not better to have no 'thine own'? He who taught us the way of life, who, having all things, who being God, yet thought it not unworthy of Him to be the poorest man upon earth; who, having all things offered to Him (which He could have had indeed without such offer) by the Tempter, yet chose to wander upon earth, having nowhere to lay His head--He had no 'His own.' No, He preached, and practised what He preached--the universal love of God to man, and of man to his fellow. 'Give us this day our daily bread,' is all we ought to ask for ourselves in the way of earthly wants; all else has to do with our spirits, our souls.

"The instinct that causes us to wish for our own, to fight for our own, or to die for our own, is not the instinct of a Christian. 'Sell all thou hast and give to the poor,' are our Lord's words: for all we want in this world are food and raiment, which having, let us be therewith content. How did the first disciples of our Lord live after He was taken from them? 'Neither said any of them that ought of the things which he possessed was _his own_, but they had all things in common.' The more all of us realise that this is not our life, that our home is not here, the happier we shall be. A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of things which he possesseth, but in the possession of the Holy Spirit of God, which no human power can take from him; in fact, the more they try to take it away, the more the Spirit abideth, for as the soul resisteth temptation, so it becometh stronger, holier, purer. The aim of our lives should be to live like Christ; and I have often told thee how He lived. But we cannot attain to perfection by our own efforts, it must be the faith in Jesus, which will only do this; and this comes with His Holy Spirit. But by prayer and fasting and unceasing watchfulness we may prepare our bodies, and make them more fit to be the tabernacles of the Holy Ghost. But remember, my son, that the great danger to all men is to think of themselves. In deep religious meditation there is much danger of thinking only of _yourself_. The rule of life should be to work and to obey: _laborare est orare_--abolish _self_, forget _self_, annihilate _self_. So know thyself that thou mayest know thy faults; think not so to know thyself as to think thou hast any virtues. We have none but by the Spirit of God.

"But I fear I have not done my duty in telling thee how to live. Thou hast a mission before thee, my son, and God will help thee. Thou dost not yet know Him; but He will draw thee to Himself. If, as thou growest older, the pleasures of the world, the gibes of others, or the temptations of the flesh, should allure thee into sin, remember that a little endurance here will procure everlasting happiness hereafter. And, above all things, work; work is the great and homely friend that drives away temptation. Flee youthful lusts which war against the soul; yea, run away from them. Get up, run about; above all, work and pray. And now, my son, may the blessing of God go with thee. Thou hast been brought here in His wonderful wisdom to be as a brand plucked from the burning, and, perhaps, to be a great instrument to win souls to God. The aim of thy life must be to cast self on one side, and imitate the life of Christ. This will be a hard task. Thou wishest to be a hero. The greatest hero is he who unconsciously does simple or great deeds for the sake of others, but which may cause him unutterable suffering. But, remember, it is the unconsciousness of the actions that makes the heroism; I mean the unconsciousness that thou art doing anything great. And it is not the actions that the world calls great that are always great. I believe the greatest heroes are known only to God.

"And now, my son, let us pray that His Holy Spirit may fill thy heart, for thou hast a worthy object in life before thee, and wilt need much strength to fulfil it."

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*"'TWIXT CUP AND LIP, THERE'S MANY A SLIP."*

It was nearly dusk before brother Corman returned; Father Dicoll and AEdric were seated outside on the little quay looking for him.

"There he is," cried AEdric, as he caught sight of the little raft coming sluggishly up with the tide. "I wonder what message he has brought?"

"Whatever it is, it is now too late for thee to go away to-night."

"How glad I am! And perhaps it will rain to-morrow. I do wish it would, and then I couldn't leave thee. Dost thou think it looks like rain, Father Dicoll?"

Father Dicoll looked up.

"No, I can't say I think it does. The sun seems to me to be setting beautifully."

And now brother Corman was coming nearer; they could hear the splash of his oars, and he seemed to be singing.

AEdric was all impatience to know what was to happen to him, but walking was yet far too painful, so he had to master his eagerness until Corman got nearer. But at last he could stand it no longer, and called out:

"Am I to go to-morrow?"

Brother Corman ceased his chaunt and his rowing, and turned round; but all he said was:

"Wait till I get on shore."

"How provoking he is! Why can't he tell me at once?"

But Father Dicoll said nothing. If he had said anything it would have been to reprove AEdric for his impatience; but he was a wise man, who trusted to silence for doing the work of words--a method which, however, requires great knowledge in its application.

It was not long before Corman had run his raft alongside the quay, and with provoking deliberation, as it seemed to AEdric, moored her to a post; he then picked up the oars, and putting them over his shoulder, came up to Father Dicoll and AEdric.

"Well, brother Corman, and how hast thou fared?" said Father Dicoll.

"Well enough. Wilfrid will have a litter brought down to the shore yonder by noon to-morrow, and AEdric is to go there to meet him. He promises to care for him well; and he also told me news which, if it be true, may make a great deal of difference to the boy's fortunes, and indeed for all the country round."

"What was that?"

"Why, that Centwine of Wessex is dead, and bid all men own the outlaw Caedwalla to be king in his stead, before he died."

"How knew Wilfrid of that?"

"How knows Wilfrid of everything? He is not like us. He is troubled about much serving; the doings of the world concern him, and the great ones of the earth are those in whom he delights."

Father Dicoll said nothing, but turned towards their hut. AEdric followed, leaning on Corman's arm, and using a stick for a crutch.

When they got inside Father Dicoll prepared their frugal meal, as Corman was tired with his long walk and row. Then they had evening service, and after that AEdric was attended to; the bandages on his leg were changed, and he was made comfortable for the night. He felt very sad as he lay down, and felt much inclined to rebel at being sent away without having a voice in the matter; but the lessons of the last few days were beginning to bear fruit, and he recognised the duty of submitting his own inclinations to the wisdom of those whom he had found by experience to be kind and good.

The next morning they were all up at the usual hour. Not much was said. Father Dicoll thought it better to let the many conversations he had had with AEdric remain in the boy's mind without further comment, and AEdric himself was too unhappy at parting to say or ask much. As the hour drew near for him to be put on board the raft, he felt more than ever inclined to be rebellious; but again the kindness of the good monks, and their constant teaching on the subject of self-obliteration, came to his mind, and he sorrowfully prepared for his departure.

The little raft was made ready to receive AEdric by Corman, who placed on it a few skins and a pitcher of water. As the boy had brought nothing with him there was no difficulty about baggage. When all was ready, Father Dicoll assisted AEdric down the path to the quay, and helped him on board, directing him to lie down in such a position as not to inconvenience Corman while rowing. Then, giving him his blessing, he took an affectionate farewell.

AEdric could scarcely refrain from tears, but, remembering how Ceolwulf would have laughed at him if he had given way to his emotion, he mastered his feelings, and smiled back at Father Dicoll.

"I shall soon come back and see thee; thou knowest; my leg is very nearly well now, thou hast cured it so wonderfully, and when I go back to Wihtea thou and brother Corman will come over and teach us all to be good."

Father Dicoll nodded and said, "As God wills it, my son." Then brother Corman got on to the raft, and, pushing off, began to row slowly away.

AEdric waved his hand to the good monk, and then sank back on his couch with a wistful look.

"What is Wilfrid like, brother Corman? dost thou think I shall like him?"

"I am sure thou wilt; but I don't suppose thou wilt see very much of him, he is always so busy. Thou seest he is not like Father Dicoll and me. He is not a simple monk like us, and he has a great deal to look after."

"Then shall I have to be all by myself all day? Will no one talk to me or tell me stories as thou and Father Dicoll were always doing?"

"No, there is no fear of that; he has several monks and priests with him, and I expect Bernwine, or Hildila, will look after thee."

"And who are they?"

"Well, Bernwine is Wilfrid's nephew, and a priest. Hildila is also a priest, and they are reported to be good men."

They were going gently by the sedgy banks; the trees were a deeper russet-brown than they had been when AEdric came wearily past them a few weeks before. He had felt lonely and in great pain then; he was stronger now, and his leg was nearly well, but Dicoll doubted whether he would quite regain the full use of it, as the wound had been very severe and had cut through a tendon. But he felt more lonely now, and dreaded the going among an entirely new set of faces, without a single friend to welcome him.

They went on in silence for some little time. At last AEdric said:

"I wonder if Wulfstan did really go with Ceolwulf?"

"I should think there was no doubt about it."

"If people are dead dost thou think they can come and tell us where they are, and what they are doing?"

"I never knew myself any that did," answered Corman, cautiously. "But all men have believed it to be possible, and there are countless legends and stories which tell of such occurrences."[1]

[1] See "the Dialogues of St. Gregory the Great" for the belief in supernatural messages, a work not likely to be known by Corman, but surely representing the orthodox belief of the time.

"Then why dost thou think my father AElfhere or my mother Alftruda never came to see me and tell me what has become of them?"

"Why, my son, what a very unreasonable question! How can I tell?"

AEdric looked dissatisfied. He thought the monks knew everything: a not uncommon belief with children in respect of those who are older than they are; a belief that is at the same time flattering and embarrassing, and which serves as the basis for the greatest number of impositions quackery and charlatanism have known how to successfully palm off on ignorance.

Again they lapsed into silence. Boseham was still in sight behind them. AEdric turned his head to look once more at the quiet little place where he had learnt so much.

"Why, Corman, isn't that a man on horseback on the quay?"

Corman looked. "Well, it does look like some one on a horse. I wonder who it can be."

"Hark! I think I hear somebody calling," said AEdric.

Corman ceased rowing, and the raft, sluggishly moving when Corman rowed his hardest, ceased to ripple through the water.

A loud halloo came over the water.

"What can he want. Is he calling us?" asked AEdric.

"Hush! he is saying something," said Corman.

An indistinguishable shout again reached them.

"I can't make out what he is saying, but it seems to be very important. I wonder who he is. Now, it may be right to go back, but it may be wrong. Hark! he's calling again."

"Something about 'back' is what he seems to say," said AEdric.

Corman still waited, and gazed in the direction of the horseman.

"What I can't understand is, why Father Dicoll is not there. I don't think it is all right, or he would be on the quay, and would wave to us, or make some signal."

AEdric looked carefully to see whether he could not make out his figure anywhere. At last he called out:

"I see him. There he is; he is waving his hands."

Corman looked where AEdric pointed, and saw Father Dicoll, who was certainly making some kind of sign, but it did not seem to him that they were signs to return.

"I think he means us to go on. Now do thou watch him, don't look at the other man at all. I will turn the raft round and row back. If he waves his hands, as if sending us away, tell me at once."

Corman then turned the raft round, while AEdric looked intently at Father Dicoll.

The man had stopped shouting as soon as he saw that the raft was coming back, but Dicoll went on waving his arms more than ever. He was standing a little way behind the man, so that his movements were not seen by him.

"Well," said Corman, "what dost thou make of it?"

"I think he means we are to return," said AEdric.

Corman turned round to look.

"Well, I don't know; it looks as though he were beckoning, certainly, but it is very difficult to see from this distance. However, I will go on rowing a little longer, and then, perhaps, we shall be able to make out what it all means."

So saying, Corman pulled against the tide, that was running out fast. He did not make much way, but Dicoll never ceased to make signs, waving his arms about frantically.

"I think he does perhaps mean we are to go on," said AEdric, who had been carefully watching him.

"Well, I will turn round again, and we shall see whether he changes his movements."

Directly the raft was turned round the horseman began to shout vigorously, but Father Dicoll ceased to wave his hands and arms.

"What dost thou think of that, AEdric?"

"I think it means we are to come back."

"I don't though; now see," and Corman once more turned the raft round as if to row back. Instantly Father Dicoll began to wave his arms frantically, and the horseman ceased to shout. Suddenly he caught sight of Father Dicoll, something flashed in the air, and Father Dicoll ceased to wave his arms.

"What does that mean? He hasn't struck Father Dicoll, has he?"

"I don't like the look of it. I certainly shall not go back until I have left thee in a safe place."

Corman again turned the raft round, and headed it for the entrance of the creek. As he did so, the shouting began again.

"Ah! thou mayest shout, shout till thou art hoarse too, but I shan't come back yet."

"Oh, Corman, he has struck Father Dicoll! I saw him raise his arm, and then I saw Father Dicoll fall. How dreadful! and all because Father Dicoll tried to save me."

Corman was very much overcome.

"If any ill hath happened to him, the Lord will requite the doer of it; but it would be a grievous thing for any evil to befall him. Oh, Dicoll, my father, what shall I do bereft of thee? Sweet has thy intercourse been to me. Desolate am I, and deprived of life, if thy life be taken from me," and Corman ceased rowing, and gazed ruefully towards Boseham.

"Oh, Corman, look! the man is galloping along the shore, and----why, there are several more men coming down. What are they going to do?"

Corman and AEdric remained for a few moments in speechless curiosity. The man on horseback had galloped furiously up to the men, and was gesticulating rapidly. The men dispersed and ran about the shore. At last they all seemed to be running to one spot. They all collected round something, the man on horseback appearing to be energetically directing them.

"Why, it's one of the Boseham boats they are launching, I do believe," said Corman.

"So it is, and now they are getting into it. What do you think it means?"

"I think they are going to row after us."

So saying, Corman began rowing again as hard as he could.

They were about three-quarters of a mile away, and had to go about a mile more before they could reach the "hard," or landing place, on the other side of the creek, for they had to row out of the little creek, at the head of which Boseham stands, and cross the larger creek that wound its muddy way up to within a mile of Cissanceaster.

The tide was running out strongly, and this was all in their favour, for as they got farther down the stream ran stronger.

Corman knew the importance of making the full use of the tide, and he strained every muscle to get into the main channel.

The other boat was now manned, and the crew were rowing vigorously, but unscientifically. The horseman had got in, and was steering.

"They are not gaining much, if at all," said AEdric.

Corman said nothing. He had need of all his strength and breath; the drops of perspiration on his brow told how hard he was working. The clumsy raft went sluggishly along in spite of all his toil, and the other boat came nearer.

"Why can't I row? I know how; I have often done it at home. I could at least take one oar."

Corman shook his head, and rowed hard.

Nothing more was said by AEdric, and the oars splashed and the water gurgled under the unwieldy logs of the raft, as it slushed its way through the water.

"They are gaining on us now. Well done!" cried AEdric, as one of the men twisted his oar under the water, and was knocked by the handle of it against the next man, and so into the bottom of the boat. It was comic to see his legs go up in the air, and to hear the shouts of wrath from the helmsman.

"That has stopped them a bit. Now if they only would stick in the mud! the tide is falling fast, and they couldn't get off."

Corman was getting tired with his exertions. It was quite clear, unless some accident happened to the other boat, they must be caught. They were so near to each other now that AEdric could distinguish the men. They were all strangers to him. The man who commanded was a tall, grey-bearded man, muscular and wiry. He wore a helmet and linked mail shirt, across which a chain hung supporting a two-edged battle axe; his keen eyes glared from under thick, bushy, grey eyebrows, and two wings of a hawk attached to his helmet gave him a very war-like air.

"Who can he be, I wonder?" said AEdric.

Corman only shook his head by way of answer, and kept rowing desperately, but there was evidently no chance. Suddenly an idea struck him. "AEdric," he gasped, "dost thou see any shallow spot ahead over which we could go, but on which they would stick? If thou dost, point to it, and I will row over it."

AEdric looked about; the sea was so muddy that it was difficult to tell where the deep water was, but the current ran in stronger eddies, and with more of ruffle on its surface in the channel, and the boy saw one bank that he thought would do.

They had now got to the part of the creek where the Boseham lake, or creek, joined the arm that went up to Cissanceaster. There was a long spit of mud running out from the western shore. If they could pass over this they would gain a good bit on their pursuers, who might, perhaps, be tempted to follow them, in which case they would inevitably run aground, and would have to remain for some hours.

"I see a lane of deeper water across that bank there, only you must row very hard for it. It is some way off yet!" cried AEdric.

Corman tugged at the oars, the awkward raft moved hardly any quicker, and the drops of perspiration rolled off the monk.

Nearer and nearer the other boat came after them. The steersman was laughing. AEdric could see his great mouth opening in a broad grin of triumph. The men were not rowing nearly so hard now, and he could hear them talking. They were quite confident of success.

"Pull, Corman, pull! we are just going into the shallow part."

And the poor monk rowed harder than ever. His eyes were straining and bloodshot, and the muscles of his neck stood out like knotted cords. The bow of the other boat was only a few yards off. The man in the bows had put his oar in, and was standing ready to jump on board the raft. The water curled under the bows.

Suddenly the man in the bows was jerked violently forward, a large rush of water spread over the yellow surface ahead, and a wild shout of joy rang out from AEdric.

"They are ashore, they are ashore! Hurrah!"

And so it was: the boat, drawing quite two feet of water, had plunged into the mud, and was now stuck fast. All was instantly confusion and clamour on board. The chieftain stormed and raged, notwithstanding it was entirely his own fault; for he had not followed the wake of the raft, but had tried to cut it off. The raft was still in comparatively deep water, and was going away merrily. The men on board all stood up, and pushed and tugged at their oars, but as fast as they pushed their oars in, and moved the boat at all, they pulled her on again by trying to get their oars out of the deep, clinging, holding mud. Fierce imprecations and abusive epithets flew from the commander, but all to no purpose.

"Get out, men! out with ye, or we shall remain here for ever. See how the tide is falling!" shouted the old man.

The men tumbled over the gunwale into the shallow water, but they could hardly have done a more useless thing. Instead of pushing the boat off they only pulled it all the deeper into the mud; for not being able to obtain any foothold, they hung on to the sides of the boat to prevent themselves sinking in. It was a ludicrous sight to see all these strong men hanging round the boat, wallowing and plunging in the black, clinging mud. The helmsman grew more and more furious, the more it became apparent that their position was hopeless. The men, disgusted with the mud and their fruitless exertions, tried to get in again, and the sight was still more comic, as they all struggled to climb over the side of the high and awkward boat. Their muddy legs all had the appearance of wearing long black silk stockings, and as they wriggled and plunged, they gradually became covered with the same horrible, greasy, shiny coating. Sometimes a man would be seen to raise himself up, get one leg over the gunwale, lie down on his side, and try to roll himself into the boat, his other leg would wave in the air, and just as he was succeeding, some of the other men, intent on their own endeavours, would pull the boat too much down on that side, and he would roll over into the mud again. At last one or two succeeded in getting in, and the others, with their assistance, were hauled over the side, not without much bruising of legs and arms, and a plentiful bedaubment of mud.

Meanwhile AEdric and Corman were getting on well. The monk had rested a little when he saw that they had got far enough away to be safe from any arrow, supposing the men had bows and arrows with them, and he and AEdric were laughing at the miserable plight of their pursuers.

Suddenly Corman began to row vigorously again. He had looked round, and instantly worked as hard, or harder, than ever at the oars.

"Why, Corman, what is the matter?" said AEdric; but the monk did not answer. AEdric looked about, puzzled; there was no other boat in sight, and the men were still far too busy trying to get into their boat to be thinking of any means of pursuing them, even if they had a chance of finding any. But while AEdric was wondering what had caused these renewed exertions of brother Corman, the raft came to a stop. It also had run on the mud.

Their position was now singular, and very tantalising to both parties, but especially so for Corman and AEdric, for a few strokes more or a few inches more water and they would have been over the bank and into the little lake that ran into the deep channel on the other side. But there was no help for it. They could not push the logs of wood across, tied together as they were, and they were compelled to sit patiently and watch the struggles of the men in the other boat.

These latter had at last got in again, and a loud shout told Corman and AEdric they had discovered that they also were aground.

"What shall we do?" asked AEdric, ruefully.

"Sit here, my son, until the Lord sends the water back again."

Poor Corman was not sorry altogether. It had been a terrible trial of his strength, and he had pluckily answered to it; but he was very exhausted. Fortunately he had the pitcher of water on board, which he had put there in case AEdric should want any, or feel faint, and it now came in very usefully. After taking a long draught, he uttered a sigh of satisfaction, and stretched himself at full length on the raft, closing his eyes and folding his hands together on his chest.

AEdric pushed a skin under his head, but the monk took no notice. The boy would have liked to have talked, but he respected Corman's fatigue, and watched the other boat's crew instead. They were doing nothing, sitting listlessly on the sides of the boat, some with their black legs hanging over, some with their legs inside, all looking disconsolate and foolish. They evidently had no bows with them, or they would have tried a shot at the raft.

The tide had now gone down a long way, and both boat and raft were left high and dry. Corman still slept, and AEdric was beginning to be very weary of their position, when he thought he heard some one hailing them. He looked about, but could see no one. Thinking it was his fancy, he was going to lie down when again he heard a voice calling, and this time there was no doubt it was some one calling Corman. The boy instantly awoke the monk, who sat up and rubbed his eyes with a dazed look.

"Corman, there is someone calling you."

"Is there? Where?" said Corman, sleepily.

"I don't know where. Listen, there it is again."

Corman got up and stood upon the raft, which had by this time settled down with its weight into the mud. He looked about; the tide had got down so low that the mud banks in places obscured a view of the water. But as Corman looked round he caught sight of a small boat in the Cissanceaster channel as near to him as it could get, which was about a quarter of a mile off however. As soon as the men--for there were two--in the boat saw Corman, they shouted to him again.

"Hullo!" cried Corman; "what dost thou want?"

A confused collection of sounds answered.

"I can't hear thee," shouted Corman. "Who art thou?"

"Wevcumfrolfrid" was all AEdric could make out.

"What does that mean?" said Corman. "Speak more clearly," he shouted.

Again the incomprehensible sound came back.

"Well, they've got very weak voices, whoever they are," said Corman.

"We've come from Wilfrid," came at last distinctly across the mud.

"They have come from Wilfrid," cried AEdric, joyously. "We shall escape, then, after all."

"I don't know that," said Corman. "How are we to get to them, or they to us?"

At last an idea occurred to him. He got up again.

"Hast thou any mud-pattens?" he shouted.

No answer. He yelled out his question again. This time the word "No" reached him.

"Canst thou not get any?" he yelled.

"We'll gongetsome."

"Well, that is sensible," said Corman, as he saw the boat go off towards the opposite shore.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*"THE CRUEL CRAWLING FOAM, THE CRUEL HUNGRY FOAM."*

"Well, AEdric, if we can once get over to the other shore we shall be all safe, for Wilfrid is feared by all these South Saxons in a way that I never could understand."

"But who dost thou think they are who are pursuing us?"

"It must be the Eorldoman Berchthune."

Corman had now stretched himself out again, and was preparing to have his doze out. Fortunately, the weather was fine. Their situation was uncomfortable enough with fair weather; it would have been deplorable had it rained. The little raft lay stranded on a wide-stretching bank of mud; all round little rivulets washed their muddy courses out of the soft ooze. On one side, but at some distance, a belt of shingle, marked with a long brown streak, the boundary of the sea at high water, was surmounted by a brown growth of wind-blown bushes, relieved here and there by a weird oak-tree, whose blighted growth appealed in outstretched leafless branches to the north-east to protect it from the violent treatment it always received at the hands of its tormentor, the south-west wind; above, a grey sky, windless and still, while all the world below looked sodden, and muddy, and brown. On this world of mud a sea-gull or two were having an eager feast, not unaccompanied by an occasional fight over some succulent crab or juicy winkle, while a curlew dipped its curved beak among the brown sludge, or plaintively cried to its more fortunate mate. Overhead a heron winged its way, looking sardonically down on the dot of the raft and the somewhat larger speck of the boat. It was a dull, dreary scene--a world of mud, a world of wood, a world of grey and brown.

AEdric looked at it all wearily enough. He began to feel sleepy too. It seemed so odd to be so close to their enemies, doing nothing, and yet perfectly safe. They were not more than five hundred yards off, and in the perfect quiet he could hear the voices of the men as they occasionally spoke.

Gradually he dozed off. The seagulls came nearer, the crabs crawled up on to the edges of the raft, and the lobworms busily raised their piles all round. So passed an hour. But what is it that causes the crabs to sidle away, and the gulls to get up on circling wings, screaming the while?

"Wake up, Corman, wake up, AEdric, and see what your pursuers are doing," the wild birds seemed to cry.

Weary of doing nothing, the idea had occurred to Berchthune to make a movable kind of platform of planks, by which two men could approach the raft. By laying down one set of boards and then standing on them, they were able to lay another set ahead, then getting on these, they were able to pull up the others, and slide them past and place them ahead again, and so they were able to make laborious but sure way up to their prey. In this way they had already advanced about fifty yards, and were getting more adroit in moving the boards.

Heavily Corman was sleeping, and AEdric was far away in dreamland. Nearer and nearer the boards were being pushed; not without much noise and mirth from those in the boat, however. Several times the two adventurous ones had, in the confidence of their skill, gone too much to the side of their treacherous platform, with the result that they had slipped into the fathomless mud, and had to crawl ignominiously back upon their fickle plank, blacker and humbler men. Each of these checks to their pride had evoked shouts of laughter from their comrades and showers of abuse from Berchthune, who was fretting at the delay.

AEdric was dreaming blissfully, and Corman still snored.

Nearer and nearer the men approached, when a shout from their comrades urged them to more activity. The other boat had been seen returning from the Selsea shore. It ran on the mud at the nearest point to the raft, and a man was seen to get out and walk over the slippery surface towards Corman and AEdric.

"Why, he's got boards on his feet!" said the begrimed and weary South Saxon, as he squatted on his precarious plank to look at the strange spectacle, disgusted at the mean advantage of the other man.

Quite safely the man slithered his way over the mud, carrying four flat boards in his hands. He had already gone nearly half the distance, and this in about five minutes; while the enterprising South Saxons had taken nearly an hour to get over an equal space.

"Get on with ye, sluggards, or they will escape yet!" shouted Berchthune, stamping with rage at the idea of his game getting away, after all the hours of waiting on the mud, and the certainty of its falling into his hands at last, on which he had consolingly counted. The two South Saxons now realised that they must make the most desperate exertions if they hoped to get to the raft before the other man. They tugged at their boards--splash they went, into the mud ahead; quickly they got upon them--splash came the last ones they had trodden on out of the mud behind; they toiled at them to put them into their places, then jumped upon them, and once more heaved at their last resting-place. They had no time to look up, splash--slosh--heated work; grimy, filthy, slimy toil--and all the time the crew shouted to them, cheering them on, and encouraging them to fresh exertions. Brother Corman was well avenged for the trouble they had given him in the morning. The men were a great deal nearer the raft than the other man was; but he was going on steadily, and well. And in spite of all the South Saxons could do, the boards would stick in the mud, and their labour was terrific. Their plight was piteous: the perspiration rained off their foreheads, and formed little lanes of white down their muddy faces. And all the time Berchthune yelled at them, and the crew hied them on. And now the men were not more than ten yards distant, while the other man was about the same. The excitement on board the boat became intense, for their men, going as they were in a line from them, seemed to be much nearer than the other man, whose whole distance was visible.

"Make a jump for it!" roared Berchthune. "By Woden's beard, I'll have ye flayed alive if ye don't beat that 'nithing' there."

The men tugged amain, but, alas for their success! they could not get their last resting-place up; they had, in their eagerness, placed the board they were standing on too far away from the one they had just left. They leant over the mud, they stretched themselves, they gasped, they dripped, but all to no purpose, and, worse than all, their last standing place began slowly to increase its distance.

They had placed their boards on the slippery brow of one of the many little rivulets which drained the mud-banks, and as they leant over to get at the other planks left behind, all their weight, being on one side, caused the boards to lift at the other end, and begin slowly to slide down into the little gully.

One of the men had reached over so far that, as the board receded, he fell forward on his face in the mud, clutching desperately to the other planks. The other man was just able to recover his balance before too late.

"Hold on to my legs, man, can't thee?" roared the prostrate South Saxon, as loud as he was able, for his mouth was very near the mud. The other man did as he was told. The situation was now too ludicrous, even for the man who was hastening, as fast as his awkward mud-pattens would allow him, to rescue Corman and AEdric. He stopped still and begun to roar with laughter.

By this time Corman was beginning to be aware that there were other existences besides his own. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, looked about him, and could scarcely take in the situation. When he did he also burst out laughing, and AEdric, waking up, was astonished to see Corman sitting on the raft, his mouth wide open, and peals of laughter shaking him from head to foot.

The unfortunate South Saxons were not nearly so much amused; the wretched one, who was now acting as a kind of animated tow-rope to the other planks, was hanging on grimly to the tenacious boards, while his comrade held on fast to his ankles and all the time the other boards were slowly slipping over the ooze. Neither man dare let go, and yet there was no hope of being able to pull the obstinate boards out of the mud, as there was no purchase by which they could be raised, and they were besides slimy with mud.

For a minute the tension lasted; then slowly the man's hands slipped off the greasy planks, and he lay spread out, face downwards, on the ooze. The other South Saxon still held on to his legs, and the two, now that his comrade had let go of the firmly-imbedded planks, glided more speedily into the bed of the little rivulet. There was no danger of the prostrate man sinking into the mud provided he did not attempt to walk. The long weed-like grass that spread over the surface kept him up, so long as he lay outstretched; but he wanted to get on the boards on which his comrade was seated, and the difficulty was how to do it. He wriggled and twisted, and sank his knees into the slime, but at last he succeeded in rolling himself down sideways on to the plank; and there the two men sat, disconsolate and helpless, within six yards of Corman and AEdric.

All this time the Eorldoman Berchthune was shouting himself hoarse with abuse at the wretched adventurers, and Corman and AEdric were enjoying the sport.

Their rescuer had now waddled up to them. Corman knew how to use mud-pattens, but the difficulty was how to carry AEdric. He could use one leg, and they managed by putting one mud-patten on his foot, and holding him between them, to get him off the raft.

The South Saxons, seeing their prey escaping them, when they had so nearly grasped it, and urged on by the abuse of Berchthune, determined to make one more effort. Profiting by his experience of the buoyant nature of the mud, if only its properties were clearly understood, the South Saxon who had wriggled on to the planks beside his comrade determined to try the plan again. It was only six yards--only three times his own length--and the mud-pattens were not yet adjusted. Throwing himself forward on to the mud, he began to wriggle over it towards the raft. The other man, not to be out-done, began doing the same.

"Quick, AEdric, or we shall be too late after all," cried Corman.

The South Saxons were just reaching the raft as Corman and their deliverer assisted AEdric off between them. Wildly their pursuers flung themselves upon it. The others were only a few paces off. Without hesitating a moment, the first South Saxon reared himself erect on the raft, and sprang fiercely after the retreating figures. He just managed to reach the skirts of Corman's frock, and plunged knee-deep in the mud. He held on to the poor, old worn gown of the monk, who struggled to wrench it out of his grasp, while AEdric and the other man pulled at Corman. Suddenly there was a crack, and the torn handful of Corman's garment remained in the South Saxon's hand, who sank deeper in the yielding mud with the recoil.

The other South Saxon had been more prudent; he stood upon the raft and looked at the now secure Corman and AEdric, and at his miserable comrade--for miserable he was, far more so than at first sight appeared. He wriggled and struggled to get out; plunged his hands and arms up to their elbows in the mud. The more he strove, the more hopeless his position became. Deeper--deeper, down he sank--the mud was now up to his waist. If only he could get one leg out, or throw himself flat upon the mud again; but the suction of the mud was upon him. Its awful grasp had got sure hold of him.

"For the love of Valhalla, lend me a hand!" he roared.

"I can't, man. I can't reach thee!" cried the other.

"Give me that oar--give me them both. Quick!"

The oars were flung to him; he placed them under his armpits, and so low had he sunk that he rested on them. For a time they bore him up, but the slight sticks, only roughly flattened at the end, began to sink too; and the pain in his shoulders was acute. His situation was desperate, for although he was being only very slowly engulfed now, yet none the less was the progress very sure. The tide had begun to rise--it was coming in rapidly. Would there be time for the raft to float before he was suffocated, or would the sea flow over his head first before there was water enough to float it? It was a desperate hope.

Meanwhile, Corman and AEdric were safe in the boat Wilfrid had sent for them, and were far away on the other side.

Up and up flowed the tide. The sea gulls had had their feast of crabs, and were screaming overhead. The wretched man's eyeballs were starting from his head; his head was sunk between his shoulders. Up and up crept the tide. The lobworms had ceased to pile their little heaps; the crabs were playfully scampering to meet the crawling froth, pushed further and further with each succeeding wavelet.

No hope! the water has reached his chin; the slimy froth and scum of the mud forms a collar round the doomed man's neck. One more prodigious effort, one despairing, gasping heave. No good! The hands are clasped over the mouth, with the instinct of self-preservation, even in inevitable death; but the water knows no barrier. The froth bubbles up, it is on a level with the lower lip, each wave and ripple washes higher, now the mouth is covered. With a desperate wrench, the gasping man raises his mouth above the water, but, unable to keep up the strain, his head sinks again, and this time the cruel water has reached the nose. The head falls down, a few bubbles, a little brown patch, hardly to be distinguished from seaweed, around which the yellow froth laps in the ripple, is all that marks where a strong man has died. Soon even that will have disappeared, and the place that knew him shall know him no more.

The sea had been washing round the raft for some minutes, but the water-soaked logs were heavy, and had been sucked into the mud. The drowned man's head had been entirely covered before the awkward structure showed any signs of lifting. Indeed, the water was nearly floating over it, and the South Saxon had begun to dread a similar death to that of his comrade, when the raft gave a lurch, and once more was afloat. The man had no oars, or anything to propel it with; but as the other boat would be afloat also before many minutes, they would come and pick him up.

Presently the idea occurred to him to push the raft with one leg on the bottom; in this way, and with a favouring tide he was enabled at last to reach his companions.

The Eorldoman Berchthune was very sullen, and greeted the man with violent abuse for not having made more haste at first; and this was all the misguided ceorl got for having volunteered on a perilous enterprise: for having been face to face with death, and that almost the slowest, most lingering, which could happen to man. But then in those days what were men made for but for death?

The tide had now risen high enough to float the boat. Berchthune was about to give orders to shove her off the bank, when a horseman galloping hastily down the shingle on the shore, and riding his horse as far out as he dared, shouted to the boat:

"Caedwalla has been made king of Wessex, and is marching upon us."

There was now no thought of pursuing AEdric. Orders were instantly given to turn the boat's head towards Boseham again, and it was not long before they reached its little quay. There the horseman met them, having ridden his horse at full speed, and then Berchthune learnt fuller particulars of the startling news.

Caedwalla was only a day's march distant, advancing with a powerful force of West Saxon eorls, and his own veteran band of faithful followers, no longer outlaws, but honoured friends of the king. He was burning to avenge his last defeat and reassert his claim to the throne of the South Saxons.

This was grave news. Berchthune mounted his horse and rode off at once towards Cissanceaster, directing his followers to come after him as soon as possible.

But all this time AEdric and Corman were making the best of their way to Wilfrid. Corman, indeed, when he saw that AEdric was safe, intended going back to look after Father Dicoll, but Wilfrid's men advised him not, and as there was no boat, for they would not lend him theirs, he was compelled to go on. He cast one more lingering, sad look at Boseham, and mourned over his dearly-loved friend, Father Dicoll.

But AEdric was delighted; he should not now have to live at Selsea among perfect strangers. After a long ride over a drearily flat country, they came to a clearing amid the gorse and bush; on the other side of this clearing a building, that to Corman and AEdric looked immense, towered aloft over a hamlet of low thatched houses and a few farm buildings. The smell of the sea was all round, and stacks of seaweed filled the air with their peculiar odour.

What struck Corman and AEdric, however, was the order and tidiness of everything. The thatched cottages were well thatched, the walls looked well built, and the few people they met all looked better fed and happier than those about Cissanceaster and Boseham. As they got nearer to the large building a solemn sound rose and fell in measured cadence. AEdric had never heard a sound like it, at least not produced by artificial means; it was to him like the wind playing among the tall trees and the sea rolling on the shore mingled with the deep mutter of thunder on the horizon.

"What is it, Corman? is it an enchantment?"

"No, my son; it is the service of vespers in the new church Wilfrid has been building. He has brought over from Rome new wind instruments; and Gregory, the celebrated bishop of Rome, who sent Augustine, the monk, hither, has set new music to the canticles of the church. Thou wilt now be able to see how Christians perform their service of the voice and heart to God."

"It is very grand," said AEdric, who had never heard any music more beautiful than the harp, and no singing in combination more than a chorus to some interminable gleeman's tale in verse.