Who this was I did not hear, but I saw the face of the good man change, and he hurried to dismount and go to the litter.  And thence, after a word or two had passed, came the priest I had seen; and when he uncowled I knew him for my friend Selred, and glad I was to see him.

“Why, how goes it, father?” I said, as my hand met his.  “You were not in the wood of our tryst, and I feared that you were in trouble.”

Very gravely he shook his head, looking sadly at me.

“There is naught but trouble in all this place,” he said.  “I could not come to you, for the gates were closed early, that Gymbert might be taken.  He was not taken.  And yet I have heavier trouble to tell you than you can think.”

“No, father,” I said quickly, seeing that he had learned too little, and doubtless believed Hilda either drowned or else in the hands of Gymbert and his men—­whichever tale Quendritha had been told or chose to tell him.

“I was in the wood, and thither came the lady we ken of when she was set forth from the place.  I was in time to get her away, and she is safe.”

It was wonderful to see the face of the chaplain lighten at this.

“Laus Deo,” he said under his breath, and his hand sought mine again and gripped it.  “That is a terrible load off my heart,” he said.  “Yet I have heard that our good Sighard is slain.  They have burned the hall of honest Witred over his head, and he is gone, and it was said that Sighard fell there with him.”

“It is not half an hour ago that I heard how he fled to the west, where the Welsh saved him, for hatred of Offa and pity for the betrayed Anglian king.  He is safe, if a little hurt.”

Now the horse of Erling reared suddenly, and I looked up.  It was still in a moment, and he spoke to it without heeding me.  But as soon as he caught my eye when I first turned, he set his hand carelessly across his lips, and I knew what he meant.  I had better say no more of where Sighard was or how I hoped to see him.

So I said what I had to tell him of the finding of the king, and how we had come to tell Offa thereof; and as he heard, Selred the chaplain knelt there by the roadside and gave thanks openly, with the tears of joy in his eyes.  The rough housecarls heard also, and there went a word or two among them; and their grim faces lightened, for one shame, at least, had been taken from the house of their master.

Now there was a sound as of a woman’s weeping from the litter, and Selred heard it and rose to his feet.

“It is Etheldrida the princess,” he whispered to me.  “She is flying to some far nunnery—­mayhap to Crowland—­that there she may end her days in what peace she may find.  It is well, for here with her mother is but terror for her.”

The archbishop signed to me, and I went to the side of that litter, unhelming, while Erling took my horse’s bridle.  There I knelt on one knee, and waited for what I was to hear.  It was a little while before that came, but the sobs were at length stilled.  I heard one of the ladies, who were those who came from East Anglia, say to the other that it was good that she had wept at last.