letter."

"Why should we trouble what he may think or say?"

"Because the Witan has not yet met, and until it has gone through the
form, the mere form, of recognising your title, you are not actually
king. Dunstan has some influence. Suppose he should use it for Edgar?"

"Edgar, the pale-faced little priestling!"

"All the better for that in Dunstan's eyes. Nay, be advised, my king;
keep all things quiet until the coronation is over, then let Dunstan
know who you are and who he is."

"Indeed I will. He shall have cause to rue his insolent behaviour the
other night."

"Bide your time, my liege; and now the great officers of state require
your presence below."

A few days later a sorrowful procession entered the old city of
Winchester, the capital of Wessex, and once a favourite residence of
Edred, now to be his last earthly resting place. Much had the citizens
loved him; and as the long train defiled into the open space around the
old minster--old, even then--the vast assemblage, grouped beneath
the trees around the sacred precincts, lifted up their voices and joined
in the funeral hymn, while many wept tears of genuine sorrow. It was awe
inspiring, that burst of tuneful wailing, as the monks entered the
sacred pile, and it made men's hearts thrill with the sense of the
unseen world into which their king had entered, and where, as they