ger.

"Let us ride on quickly down the Ermin Street, and he will think us
making for the south and Norwich. Then we will turn off to Cabourn, and
he will lose us. After that he may hear that some of us belong to
Grimsby, and will go there; but he will be too late to hurt us. Hard men
are our fishers, and they would fight for Havelok and the sons of Grim."

So we did that, riding down the old Roman way to a wide, waste forest
land where none should see us turn off, and then across the forest paths
to Cabourn; and there we found the hermit, and there Havelok and
Goldberga were wedded again with all the rites of Holy Church, and the
bride was well content.

Now while that was our way, I will say what we escaped by this plan of
my brother's, though we did not hear all for a long time. Presently we
did hear what had happened at Grimsby towards this business, as will be
seen.

To Lincoln comes Griffin, with Cadwal his thane, just as we had left the
town thus by another road, and straightway he betakes himself to the
palace. There he finds Alsi in an evil mood, and in the hall the people
are talking fast, and there is no Berthun to receive him.

So, as he sits at the high table and breaks his fast beside the king, he
asks what all the wonderment may be. And Alsi tells him, speaking in Welsh.

"East Anglia is mine," he says, "for I have rid myself of the girl."

Griffin sets his hand on his dagger.

"Hast killed her?" he says sharply.

"No; married her."

"To whom, then?"

"To a man whom the Witan will not have as a king at any price."

"There you broke faith with me," says Griffin, snarling. "I would have
taken her, and chanced that."

"My oath was in the way of that. You missed the chance on the road the
other day, which would have made things easy for us both. There was no
other for you."

Now Griffin curses Ragnar, and the Welsh tongue is good for that business.

"Who is the man, then?" he says, when he has done.

"The biggest and best-looking countryman of yours that I have ever set
eyes on," answers Alsi, looking askance at Griffin's angry face. "There
is a sort of consolation for you."

"His name," fairly shouts Griffin.

"Curan, the kitchen knave," says Alsi, chuckling.

"O fool, and doubly fool!" cries Griffin; "now have you outdone
yourself. Was it not plain to you that the man could be no thrall? Even
Ragnar looks mean beside him, and I hate Ragnar, so that I know well how
goodly he is."

No