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Safety there was none for the companions of Anlaf, for those who sought the land for deadly fight over the billowy sea, bosomed in ships.—Five young Kings lay on the battle field, put to sleep by the swords. So also seven Earls of Anlaf, and of the host from the fleet, and of the Scots, more than can be numbered. The King of the Northmen with his little troop fled in his terror to the voice of the ship; the King of the Fleet, with one ship's crew, living escaped over the yellow deep.
So also the routed Constantine returned a fugitive to his northern hills. The hoary warrior needed not to exult in the conflict of swords.—He was the remnant of his race. His kinsmen were heaped on the field—slain in the battle. He left his son on the place of blood, covered with wounds. Young in war though old in wisdom, the fair-haired youth was staid in his glorying by the bill of slaughter.
Neither could Anlaf and his broken army boast that they were better in works of battle; at the fall of banners, at the meeting of darts, in the conflict of men, in the exchange of weapons, when they had played with the children of Edward in the field of death.
The Northmen, the sorrowful few spared by
