“I have but to say,” added the Saxon, “that, during the funeral rites of the noble Athelstane, I shall be an inhabitant of the halls of his castle of Coningsburgh⁠—They will be open to all who choose to partake of the funeral banqueting; and, I speak in name of the noble Edith, mother of the fallen prince, they will never be shut against him who laboured so bravely, though unsuccessfully, to save Athelstane from Norman chains and Norman steel.”

“Ay, ay,” said Wamba, who had resumed his attendance on his master, “rare feeding there will be⁠—pity that the noble Athelstane cannot banquet at his own funeral.⁠—But he,” continued the Jester, lifting up his eyes gravely, “is supping in Paradise, and doubtless does honour to the cheer.”

“Peace, and move on,” said Cedric, his anger at this untimely jest being checked by the recollection of Wamba’s recent services. Rowena waved a graceful adieu to him of the Fetterlock⁠—the Saxon bade God speed him, and on they moved through a wide glade of the forest.