Hilda was punished severely for her carelessness, and never again was the prince left in her charge. Indeed, Queen Osburga could hardly bear to have him out of her sight for a moment; and when it was found out that Hilda had been telling him the stories that she was forbidden to tell, then the king banished her from his court and sent her to a convent a long way off.

The queen was anxious about the king in those days, for he often seemed lost in thought, and many times she saw his eyes fixed upon her and Alfred with the same look of suffering and determination that she had seen the night of the wedding; and one day when she was in one of the rooms behind the dais, she heard him pacing to and fro on the raised platform, and saying to himself:—

"It is all for my sins. I must atone—I must atone. It is a warning." His voice was so full of anguish that the queen did not venture to come in upon him then; but her heart fell, for she was sure that some terrible grief was coming to them.

As she sat in sadness and anxiety, the little prince climbed upon her knee, and said:—

"Mother, won't you tell me a story? Hilda used to."

"My fear shall not make my child sad," she thought, and she said:—

"Yes, I will tell you a story, and I will show you a story, too." And she called one of her women.

"Go to the carved oaken chest in the southeast corner of the treasure room, and bring me the manuscript that is wrapped in a blue silken cloth."

The manuscript was brought, and the child watched with the deepest interest while the queen carefully unfolded the silken wrapping. She took out a parchment that was protected by a white leather covering. At the corners were bits of gold filigree work, and in the filigree was traced in enamel, in one corner the head of a lion, in the second that of a calf, in the third a man's face, and in the fourth a flying eagle. In the centre of the cover was a bright red stone that glowed in the light of the great wood fire.

Then the cover was thrown back, and there was a single piece of parchment. It was torn in one place and a little crumpled, and one corner had been scorched in the fire. It was covered with strange signs, most of them in black, but sometimes one was larger than the rest and painted in red, and blue, and green, and gold, in brighter, clearer colors than Alfred had ever seen in silk or in woolen.

"What is it, mother?" he cried. "Did the gods—the old ones—did they give it to you? and did they tell you how to make runes?"

"Hush!" said his mother, looking half fearfully around and making the sign of the cross on the child's forehead. "There are no gods but our own, but there are evil spirits. We must not speak of the old gods. This is a manuscript from Canterbury."

The older sons had come into the room and pressed near to look at the treasure, Ethelbald who had stood beside his father as man by man in the last war with the Danes, Ethelbert, who was but a few years younger, and Ethelred, who was also a tall young man.

"Does it mean anything? asked Ethelred.

"Yes," said his mother. "It tells a part of a story. There must have been much more of it sometime. It was in the convent at Canterbury, and when the Danes burned it—you were a baby, Alfred—the roll was burned; but a thegn saw this piece lying half hidden under a stone where the wind had blown it. The bishop said he might bring it to me, and I had the cover made for it. This is what it says," and she repeated:—

The tall young man listened as eagerly as the child, but when at the end she said:—

"I will give it to any one of you who will learn to repeat it," Alfred spoke first:—

"Will you really give it to the one that will learn it?"

"Yes," said his mother, smiling, "but you are too little. Will you have it, Ethelbald?"

"Songs are good, but fighting is better, so I'll none of it;" and Ethelbert said:—

"Saying poems is for harpers, not for princes;" and Ethelred looked at the red stone on the cover rather longingly, and then at the torn and scorched sheet of parchment, and said:—

"I don't care for pieces of things. Alfred may have it." Alfred was listening eager-eyed.

"Mother, I will learn it, truly I will. The priest will say it to me, and I will learn it. Won't you let me have it?" he pleaded.

"But what would a little boy like you do with it, if you had it?" asked the queen.

"I'd send it to my sister Ethelswitha. Won't you let me take it to the priest?" he begged. The queen yielded, the parchment was rolled up, the silken covering carefully wrapped around it, and a man was sent with the child to find the priest. It was not many days before the priest came with the little prince to the queen and said:—

"My lady, the young prince can say every word of it."

So the boy was put up high on the king's seat in the great hall, and the king and the thegns and the priests and the women of the house all came in to see the wonderful thing. To sing the old ballads, that was nothing; many a man could do that; but to say off something that had come right from a wonderful piece of parchment, that was quite another matter. Some of them were not really sure that there was not some witchcraft about it, and they stood as near the middle of the hall as they could, so that if the evil spirits should come in at either end, they could get out at the other.

Nothing dangerous happened, however. The little boy said the poem, and was praised and petted very much as a child would be to-day for accomplishing some small feat. Then the precious roll was laid on a golden salver, and one of the king's favorite thegns carried it to him, and bending low on one knee, presented it to the little prince.

"And now may I carry it to Ethelswitha?" he asked eagerly.

"It shall be sent to her," said his mother, "and the thegn shall say, 'Your little brother Alfred sends you this with his love'; but Ethelswitha's home is a long way off, and I could not spare my little boy, not even for a single day."

Again there came that strange look into the eyes of the king. He drew Osburga into a room back of the dais, and said:—

"Could you spare your son to save your husband?"

"What do you mean?" Osburga asked. She felt that the mysterious trouble that she had feared was coming upon her.

"Many years ago," said the king, "I wished to become a priest. I gave it up to please my father, because he had no other son; but I vowed to make the pilgrimage to Rome as penance, because I had drawn back after I had put my hand to the plough. My duty to the kingdom, and I am sometimes afraid my love for you,—" and he put his arm tenderly about her,—" has kept me from performing my vow. A warning came. The child that I love best was in the hands of robbers. God interposed with a miracle, and he was saved; but there will not be another miracle. I must not go to Rome, the kingdom needs me. Shall I lose my soul for my broken vow, or shall I send—?"

"Don't say it, I cannot bear it," begged the queen; but the king laid his finger gently upon her lips, and said:—

"One must give that which he values most. Shall we send Alfred?"

"Not the child," sobbed the queen. "Send the older ones, not the little one. Ethelswitha is gone, and Alfred gone—I cannot bear it."

"One must give what he values most," repeated the king gravely; "and again, it was about Alfred that the warning came. Shall we leave him to be taken from us, or shall we spare him for a little while to save him to us?"

"Let me go with him," pleaded Osburga.

"And leave me alone?" the king answered. "Is it not enough to spare my best-loved son?" and as she looked up in his face, she trembled to see how pale it had become.

"No, I could not leave you," she said. "You are wise, and I am not. You must do what is right, but how can I bear it?"

The next morning there was great excitement, for every one knew that Prince Alfred was going to Rome in the care of Bishop Swithin.