Silence dread and awful reigned over
the Dismal Swamp, the scene of strife and suffering; the very
beasts fled the spot, nor could the birds of night linger in the
heated air.
But at Aescendune all was tumult and joy. The English had advanced
against an undefended stronghold, and Wilfred was at last, as his
fathers had been, Lord of Aescendune.
There was a banquet that night in the castle hall. In the old days
of Roman triumphs, a man was placed behind the seat of the
conquering general as he sat in the intoxication of success, and
amidst the adulation of the multitude ever and anon whispered--
"Memento to moriturum."
So also there was an unseen attendant behind the chair of Wilfred.
In vain he strove to drive it away; the future would thrust itself
upon him.
He had slaked his vengeance to the uttermost and had no remorse: he
had avenged father, mother--the spiritual guides of his youth;
still he had once heard, even from them--"Vengeance is mine: I will
repay saith the Lord."
"Sing, bards," he cried out; "has no minstrel a new strain?"
They exerted themselves to the utmost; and Wilfred, determined to
rise to the occasion, threw off his sadness, ceased to speculate as
to the chances of the insurrection {xvi}; that night, at least,
he would give to joy--he would encourage his people who loved him
so faithfully by rejoicing with them.
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