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"But we must have fighting-men, Swythe," he said, to a little plump, rosy-looking monk in a long gown held tightly to his waist by a knotted rope, which cut in a good way, for the monk was very fat. "Oh, but fighting's bad, sir, very bad," said the monk, passing one of his hands round and round over his shining, closely-shaven crown. "Very bad," said King Ethelwulf.
"Well done," said Swythe, smiling; "that is something like O. Now make another, and try if you can make it worse than the last." The boy looked up at him sharply. "You are laughing at me!" he said. "Well, if I am, it is only to make you try and do better. Go on again!" The boy hesitated before looking hard at the letter he had tried to imitate, and then tried once more.
"You said that was ink yesterday," said the boy, as Swythe gave the pebble a few turns round, and then looked to see if the ink was of the right thickness, which it was not, so a feather was dipped in a water-jug, and a few drops allowed to fall upon the black patch. "There," said Swythe, "a good writer makes all his own ink. Now you grind that up till it is well mixed.
As he formed the letters with his clever white fingers, Swythe repeated the name of each, pausing a little to give finish and effect as well as sound to the words he formed, till he had, after beginning some little distance in, made so many words upon one of the faintly-drawn lines and reaching right across the parchment. "It's wonderful!" cried Alfred. "I could never do that!"
"Yonder is plump little Swythe coming to welcome me, I see," he continued; "but where are your brothers?" "I don't know, father," replied the boy, innocently enough. "They have not come back from hunting, I think."
But he was not alone in that, for, going to the window, he saw Father Swythe walking slowly down the garden amongst the Queen's flower and herb beds, with his head bowed down and his hands behind him, looking unhappy in the extreme.
Gently," cried Swythe; "that ink is too precious to be spread all over the slab. Grind it round and round. That's the way! That will do!" As he spoke, Swythe took a thin-bladed knife and a good-sized, nicely-cleaned fresh-water mussel-shell, and let the boy carefully scrape up all the ink from the slab and place it in the shell. "That's well done!" he said. "Now we'll write a line of letters."
But I say, Father Swythe, you're big and strong. Don't you think if you were to try, you could get out on to the grass? Try and struggle out before they come back." "But if I began to sink " "Then I should run and shout to the shepherds to come and pull you out." "But I shouldn't like you to leave me to sink alone, my boy."
Father Swythe did as he was told, and, while his young companion threw himself back and dragged, the monk kicked and struggled bravely, and with such good effect that, to the surprise of both, he glided slowly through the reeds, and in less than a minute he sat up panting on the short grass, with the water streaming from the front of his gown.
His brothers could not tell him where Alfred was; so after a few moments pause, Ethelbald said: "Never mind: let's go without him. Hers too young and weak to do what we do. Let him stay behind and learn Latin with old Swythe." "He did go out after him," said Bert. "Yes, I saw him. I remember now," cried Red.
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