He was an aged man, who had seen some ninety summers; his long
beard descended below the girdle which confined his brown tunic at
the waist. It was Haga, the father of Ordgar.
"My eyes are not what they were, and I see no sign as yet. Ah, here
comes little Siward!"
A boy of some twelve years approached him very silently, as if some
serious business was about to be transacted, of such nature as to
subdue boyish loquacity.
"Come hither, Siward, my grandchild, and lend me thine eyes and
ears, for mine are now dulled by age. Dost thou hear aught?"
"I hear the bittern boom, and the woodpecker tap, but that is all."
"Sit down by my side, and watch with me; the time is at hand."
"Will my father be with them?"
"He will, my child."
"And he will come home safely to us, when all is over?"
"That is as God wills, dear child; his life belongs to his country.
Thou mayst pray for him," he added, as he saw tears rise to the
eyes of the boy.
"I do," said the child.
They sat awhile in perfect silence, when at last the boy appeared
to listen intently.
"Grandfather," he said, "I hear the sound of many feet."
"Art quite sure?"
"Yes, and now I see men advancing from the shade of yonder thicket
of beech."
"And I see them too; go and warn Tosti, Sexwulf, Ulf and Frithgift,
and be sure that thou keepest out of the fen thyself.
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