While this was going on the warriors had been selecting some light and
sharp arrows and stringing their bows.

"You have but one target, not two," cried Sidroc, "and scant time
wherein to use it."

"Then you shall have two, for I will die with him," cried Alfgar,
comprehending at once that the death by which Saint Edmund of East
Anglia, and many a martyr since, had glorified God, was destined for
his companion, his brother.

He snatched at a weapon, and rushed to the tree to which the victim
was bound, as if he would save him or perish in the attempt, but a
grasp like iron was thrown around him, and he struggled in vain.

"Bind him, but do him no harm," said Sidroc, "and detain him where he
may see all, and strengthen his nerves for future occasions."

Against the tree leaned Bertric, pale, yet strangely composed; the
bitterness of death seemed to be past, so composed were his youthful
features. The lips moved in earnest, fervent prayer. Once he glanced
with a look of affection, almost of pity, upon Alfgar, and when the
latter made the vain attempt to deliver him, he cried, "Do not grieve
for me, dear Alfgar, you cannot save me; you have done your best; pray
for me, that is all you can do."

His patient courage, so unexpected in one so young, touched his
captors, as nothing else would have touched them, and Sidroc
approached him.