The body lay in the great hall, where he had so recently feasted
his retainers after the return from Stamford Bridge. Six large
tapers burned around it, and watchers were there both by day and
night.

There his people crowded to gaze upon the sternly composed features
for the last time; there knelt in prayer his disconsolate widow,
her son and daughter: they scarcely ever left the hallowed remains
until the hour came when, amidst the lamentations of the whole
population, the body of the gallant Edmund was borne to the tomb in
that chapel of St. Cuthbert, where those gallant ancestors whose
story we have told in former chronicles awaited him--"earth to
earth, and dust to dust."

It was a touching procession. The body was borne by the chief
tenants yet living, and surrounded by chanting monks, whose solemn
"Domine refugium nostrum" fell with awful yet consoling effect upon
the ears of the multitude. The churls and thralls, sadly thinned by
the sword, followed behind their lady and her two children, Wilfred
and Edith.

They placed the bier before the high altar while the requiem mass
was sung, six monks kneeling beside it, three on each side, with
lighted tapers. Then the coffin was sprinkled with hallowed water,
perfumed with sweet incense, and borne to its last resting place in
the chapel of St. Cuthbert, where they laid him by the side of his
father, Alfgar the Dane.

"Ego sum resurrectio et vita, dixit Dominus--I am the Resurrection
and the Life, saith the Lord."