"Home again"--home, saved from the fire and sword of the Northman,
of whom tradition told so many dread stories--stories well known at
Aescendune, where a young son of the then thane fifty years agone
had died a martyr's death, pierced through and through by arrows,
shot slowly to death because he would not save himself by denying
his Lord {v}.

At that dismal period the whole district had been devastated with
fire and sword, and there were old men amongst the crowd who well
remembered the destruction of the former hall and village by the
ferocious Danes. And now God had heard their litanies: "From the
fury of the Northmen, good Lord deliver us," and had averted the
scourge through the stout battle-axes and valiant swords of these
warrior peasants and their noble leaders, such as Edmund, son of
Alfgar.

Amidst all this joy the Lady Winifred of Aescendune stood upon the
steps of the great hall to receive her lord, fair as the lily, a
true Englishwoman, a loving wife and tender mother.

And by her, one on each side, stood her two children, Wilfred and
Edith. He was an English boy of the primitive type, with his brown
hair, his sunburnt yet handsome features, the fruit of country air
and woodland exercise; she, the daughter, a timid, retiring girl,
her best type the lily, the image of her mother.

And now the noble rider, the thane and father, descended from his
war steed, and threw himself into the arms of the faithful partner
of his joys and sorrows, who awaited his embrace; there was a