and we headed over to the English shore together.



CHAPTER IV. THE SONG OF THE BOSHAM BELL.


There is a wondrous joy in the heart of a man who sees his own land
again after long days at sea, but none of that joy might be mine as
the long lines of the South Downs showed blue through the haze of
the late September day. Only the promise of Lodbrok's son, that on
English shores I should not fight, helped me a little, else should
I have been fain to end it all, axe to axe with Rorik on the narrow
deck just now, or in some other way less manful, that would never
have come into my mind but for the sore grief that I was in. And
these thoughts are not good to look back upon, and, moreover, I
should have fully trusted my friend Halfden Lodbroksson.

Hardest of all was it to me when I knew where our landing was to be
made; for if Glastonbury is the most holy place in Wessex, so
should Bosham, the place of Wilfrith the Saint, be held in
reverence by every South Saxon; because there, unmindful of his
wrongs {ix}, he was content to labour with the wild heathen
folk, teaching them, both in body and soul, the first lessons of
our holy faith.

Well knew I the stories of those places which I saw as the ships
crept up the haven, for Humbert our bishop had told me them many a
time when as a child I sat on his knee and listened, wondering.
There was Selsea with its pile of buildings--Wilfrith's own--there