ave been far beneath a Northman to complain, and
he stood bearing it gallantly, and pinching his fingers tightly together,
while Osmond knelt down to examine the hurt. "'Tis not much," said he,
talking to himself, "half bruise, half burn--I wish my grandmother was
here--however, it can't last long! 'Tis right, you bear it like a little
Berserkar, and it is no bad thing that you should have a scar to show,
that they may not be able to say you did _all_ the damage."

"Will it always leave a mark?" said Richard. "I am afraid they will call
me Richard of the scarred cheek, when we get back to Normandy."

"Never mind, if they do--it will not be a mark to be ashamed of, even if
it does last, which I do not believe it will."

"Oh, no, I am so glad the gallant falcon is out of his reach!" replied
Richard, in a somewhat quivering voice.

"Does it smart much? Well, come and bathe it with cold water--or shall I
take you to one of the Queen's women?"

"No--the water," said Richard, and to the fountain in the court they
went; but Osmond had only just begun to splash the cheek with the
half-frozen water, with a sort of rough kindness, afraid at once of
teaching the Duke to be effeminate, and of not being as tender to him as
Dame Astrida would have wished, when a messenger came in haste from the
King, commanding the presence of the Duke of Normandy and his Squire.

Lothaire was standing between his father and mother on their throne-like
seat, leaning against the Queen, who had her arm round him; his face was
red and glazed with tears, and he still shook with subsiding sobs. It
was evident he was just recovering from a passionate crying fit.

"How is this?" began the King, as Richard entered. "What means this
conduct, my Lord of Normandy? Know you what you have done in striking
the heir of France? I might imprison you this instant in a dungeon where
you would never see the light of day."

"Then Bernard de Harcourt would come and set me free," fearlessly
answered Richard.

"Do you bandy words with me, child? Ask Prince Lothaire's pardon
instantly, or you shall rue it."

"I have done nothing to ask his pardon for. It would have been cruel and
cowardly in me to let him put out the poor hawk's eyes," said Richard,
with a Northman's stern contempt for pain, disdaining to mention his own
burnt cheek, which indeed the King might have seen plainly enough.

"Hawk's eyes!" repeated the King. "Speak the truth, Sir Duke; do no