The day was nearly spent, the light clouds which still reflected the
sun's ruddy glow were fast fading into a grey neutral tint, and darkness
was approaching. Once a timid deer passed along the glade, and started
as it beheld the sleeping form, then went on, but started yet more
violently as it passed a thicket on the opposite side. The night breeze
had arisen and was blowing freshly; but still the old man slept on, as
though he slept that sleep from which none shall awaken until the
archangel's trump.

Meanwhile they grew uneasy at the hall over his prolonged absence, and
at length Alfred started to find his father, beginning to fear that the
excitement of the day had been too great for him, and that he might need
assistance. He knew the favourite glade wherein the aged thane was wont
to walk, and the mossy bank whereon he frequently reposed, so he lost no
time, but bent his steps directly for the spot.

As he drew near, he saw his father lying on the bank beneath the oak as
still in sound sleep, and marvelled that the chilly air of the evening
had not awoke him. He was not wont to sleep thus soundly. He approached
closely, but his steps did not arouse the sleeper. He now bent over him,
and put his hand on his shoulder affectionately and lovingly.

"Father, awake," he said; "the night is coming on; you will take cold."

But there was no answering voice, and the sleeper stirred not. Alfred
became seriously alarmed, but his alarm changed suddenly into dread
certainty. The feathered shaft of an arrow met his eye, dimly seen in
the darkness, as it stuck in the left side of the sleeping Ella.
Sleeping, indeed. But the sleep was eternal.