“See!” I said, “the king dies! he is poisoned!”

And I was starting up, but the ealdorman held me back.

“I pray you pay no heed,” he said urgently.  “It is the king’s dark hour; he will be well anon.”

But nevertheless Alfred swayed in his seat, and two young thanes who stood waiting on him came to either side and helped him up, and together they took him, tottering, into the smaller tent that opened behind the throne; while all the guests were silent, some in fear, like myself, but others looking pityingly only.

Then a tall man in a dress strange to me—­a bishop, as I knew presently—­rose up, and said to those who knew not what was the matter: 

“Doubtless all know that our good king is troubled with a strange illness that falls on him from time to time.  This is such a time.  Have no fear therefore, for the pain he suffers will pass.  He does not will that any should be less merry because of him.”

So the feast went on, though the great empty chair seemed to damp the merriment sadly.  I asked Odda if this trouble often befell the king.

“Ay, over often,” he said, “and one knows not when it will come.  No leech knows what it is, and all one can say is that it seems to harm him not at all when it has gone.”

I asked no more, but the king did not come back to the feast, as he would at times when things happened thus.  It seemed that often the trouble fell on him when feasting, and some have said that it was sent to prevent him becoming over proud, at his own prayer {vii}.

Soon the Danes rose up, and would go.  Some of the great thanes set them forth with all honour, and the feast ended.  There was no long sitting over the wine cup at Alfred’s board, though none could complain that he stinted them.

Then the tall bishop who had spoken just now came to me.

“The king will speak with you now, King Ranald, if you will come,” he said.

So I went with him, and Odda came also.  The king was lying on a couch without his heavy state robes, and when we entered the small tent the attendants left him.  He was very pale, but the pain seemed to have gone, and he looked up pleasantly at me.

“My people are used to this, cousin,” he said, “but I fear I put you out sorely.”

“I thought you poisoned,” I said; “but Odda told me not to fear.”

“Ay, that has been the thought of others before this,” he said.  “Have you ever seen the like in any man?  I ask every stranger, in hopes that I may hear of relief.”

“No, I have not, lord king,” I answered; “but I can grave runes that will, as I think, keep away such pain if you bear them on you.  Thord, whom you know, taught me them.  Maybe it would be better for him to grave them, for runes wrongly written are worse than none, and these are very powerful.”

“That is a kindly thought, cousin,” Alfred answered; “but I am sure that no runes will avail when the prayers of my people, from holy Neot to the little village children, do not.  And I fear that even would they heal me, I must sooner bear the pain than seek to magic spells.”