The theows had fortunately, being behind, taken the alarm in time, and
escaped unnoticed by the Danes.

A large athletic warrior, but yet a man of some age, rose from his
seat by the fire, and scrutinised the captives. Alfgar knew him. It
was Sidroc, an old fellow warrior of his father, who had often visited
their home near Aescendune, and he was at no loss now to comprehend
the object of their enterprise.

The warrior gazed upon him fixedly, and then spoke aloud.

"Whence your name and lineage? Your face is not of the hue of the
faces of the children of the land. Speak! who art thou?"

"Alfgar, the son of Anlaf."

"Thor and Woden be praised! We had learned that you yet lived. Boy,
thou art the object of our search. Thou, the descendant of kings,
mayst not longer dwell with slaves. Thy father is at hand."

"My FATHER!"

"Yes. Didst thou not know that he escaped on St. Brice's night,
baffling his would-be assassins, and yet lives? He thought thee dead,
and only sought vengeance, when he heard from the captured prisoner of
Elfwyn's band that thou wert yet alive, and he is come to seek thee."

Poor Alfgar!