The piteous appeal went to the heart of the monk, and he knelt down, and
by the aid of a small lamp, examined the wounds of the sufferer.

"Thou mayst yet live, my son," he said; "tell me where is thy home; is
it in Mercia?"

"It is! it is! My home is Aescendune; it is not far from here."

"Aescendune--knowest thou Father Cuthbert?"

"I do indeed; he was my tutor, once my spiritual father."

"Thy name?"

"Elfric, son of the thane Ella."

The monk started, then raised a loud cry, which speedily brought two or
three men in the dress of thralls (theows) to his side.

"She will murder no more, father; the dog overtook her, and held her
till we came; she was red with blood, and we knocked her down; Oswy here
brained her with his club."

"It is well--she deserved her fate; but, Oswy, look at this face."

"St. Wilfred preserve us!" cried the man "it is the young lord. He is
not dying, is he? She hadn't hurt him--the she-wolf?"

"No, we were just in time, and only just in time; we must carry him home