Horrified at the sight, refusing to believe his eyes, the son first
continued his vain attempts to awake his sire, then fell on his knees,
and wrung his hands while he cried piteously, "O father, speak to me!"
as if he could not accept the fact that those lips would never salute
him more. The moonbeams fell on that calm face, calm as if in sleep,
without a spasm of pain, without the contraction of a line of the
countenance. The weapon had pierced through the heart; death had been
instantaneous, and the sleeper had passed from the sleep of this earth
to that which is sweetly called "sleep in the Lord," without a struggle
or a pang.

His heart full of joy and thanksgiving, he had gone to carry his tribute
of praise to the very throne of God.

When the first paroxysm of pain and grief was over, the necessity of
summoning some further aid, of bearing the sad news to his home, pressed
itself upon the mind of Alfred, and he took his homeward road alone, as
if he hardly knew what he was doing, but simply obeyed instinct. Arrived
there, he could not tell his mother or sister; he only sought the
chamberlain and the steward, and begged them to come forth with him, and
said something had happened to his father. They went forth.

"We must carry something to bear him home," he said, and they took a
framework of wood upon which they threw some bearskins.

Alfred did not speak during the whole way, save that in answer to the
anxious inquiries of his companions he replied, "You will see!" and they
could but infer the worst from his manner, without giving him the pain
of telling the fatal truth.