All that day's doings seemed to have been as a dream,
wherein I and Wulfhere had living part with this bishop, while the rest,
Eanulf and Matelgar and the others, were but phantoms standing by.
Maybe this is not so wonderful, for the doom was the doom of the Moot,
and spoken by Eanulf as its mouthpiece, and that passed on my body only.
And Matelgar had found a new place in my thoughts, but Wulfhere was my
friend, and the bishop had spoken to my heart, so that his words and
looks abode there.
Then the servant cut short my thoughts, and led us to the bishop,
bidding me unhelm first.
He sat in a wide chamber, with another most venerable-looking man at the
same table. And all the walls were covered with books, and on the table,
too, lay one or two great ones, open, and bright with gold and crimson
borderings, and great litters on the pages. But those things I saw
presently, only the bishop first of all, sitting quietly and very
upright in his great chair, dressed in a long purple robe, and with a
golden cross hanging on his breast.
And for a moment as I looked at him, I remembered the day of the Moot,
and my heart rose up, and I was ready to hide my face for minding the
shame thereof.
But he looked at me curiously, and then all of a sudden smiled very
kindly and said:
"Heregar, my son, are you the messenger?"
And I knelt before him on one knee, and held out the ring for him to
take, and he did so, laying it on the table before him--for my errand
was in hand yet.
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