It was an arrowhead, such a rough iron spike as men will use when they must make fresh arrows after battle, in all haste, and have to use what they can first find.

The shaft was snapped close to the iron and the rawhide lashing that held it, and I could not take it out as I would, for the young oak was sturdy and tough; and so I left it, thinking that I would return some day to cut it out.
That I did in after years, but the arrowhead was hidden, for the tree had grown fast, closing on it, as I think, and I could not find its place.

So it will be there for one to find hereafter, maybe long hence, for such a tree has many a hundred years to last yet, if saved from mishap of wind or lightning or axe.

Then I think will men still know what that iron is, for Eadmund the King cannot be forgotten.
Presently it seemed to me that the voices I heard in the wood, as the searchers called to each other, drew closer together, crying: "Where are you ?" "Here--here!" And then was a sort of outcry, and a silence, and I hoped that maybe they had found what they sought.

So I rose up and went slowly and limpingly to the place where they seemed to be.
I met them in a green glade.