The stranger, left alone, listens awhile to the muffled snow-wind, the remote, swollen sound of the river, and then he speaks.
"It is Christmas Eve," says he, "I mark the date; here I sit alone on a rude couch of rushes, sheltered by the thatch of a herdsman's hut; I, whose inheritance was a kingdom, owe my night's harbourage to a poor serf; my throne is usurped, my crown presses the brow of an invader; I have no friends; my troops wander broken in the hills of Wales; reckless robbers spoil my country; my subjects lie prostrate, their breasts crushed by the heel of the brutal Dane.

Fate! thou hast done thy worst, and now thou standest before me resting thy hand on thy blunted blade.
Ay; I see thine eye confront mine and demand why I still live, why I still hope.

Pagan demon, I credit not thine omnipotence, and so cannot succumb to thy power.

My God, whose Son, as on this night, took on Him the form of man, and for man vouchsafed to suffer and bleed, controls thy hand, and without His behest thou canst not strike a stroke.

My God is sinless, eternal, all-wise--in Him is my trust; and though stripped and crushed by thee--though naked, desolate, void of resource--I do not despair, I cannot despair: were the lance of Guthrum now wet with my blood, I should not despair.