CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF ST. BRICE.


Monday, November 14th, 1002.--

I hardly know how to write the events of last night, my pen almost
refuses to begin. I feel thoroughly sickened by the very remembrance
of the bloodshed and treachery which have disgraced Christian England,
and which will assuredly bring down God's judgment upon us.

But I will do violence to myself, and will write all things
accurately, in order it may serve to show that there were those
amongst us who were not consenting parties, who entered not into the
counsels of those men of blood, whom may God "reward after their
deeds, and according to the wickedness of their own inventions."

Well, to begin. When supper was ended at the hall last night, my
brother bade his wife and children seek their bower, and Alfgar went
with them; then he addressed his people with that confidence and
affection he not only shows in his outward speech, but really feels in
his heart.

"Are all the folk present within the gates?" he asked.

"We are all here, my lord," replied they; "none have been wanting in
their duty."

"It is well; and now, my people, I ask you, whom I have ever trusted,