t the only ones upon
him, and the bright metal showed that he was laughing a little at the
comments his performance drew forth from the three old cnihts lounging
near him.

"Tending by five hairs to the sword-side, Lord Sebert," one of them was
offering quizzical criticism over his drinking-horn.

"The Etheling must needs have extraordinary respect for the endurance of
Harald Fairhair, for it is said that to accomplish a vow he went three
years without barbering himself," another said gravely. While a third
became slyly reminiscent, as he chewed his venison.

"These are soft days, comrades. The last time I followed the old chief,
of honored memory, we held our war-council standing knee-deep in a fen.
We had neither eaten nor drunk for two days, and three days' blood was
on our hands."

The young chief took it all with careless good-humor.

"When you leave off eating, in memory of that brave time, I will leave
off washing," he returned. "Would you have me go into a royal council
looking as though birds had nested in my hair?" With a parting scrutiny
of his smooth locks, he motioned the shield-bearer aside and turned back
to them his comely face, rosy from his recent ablutions and alight with
a momentary enthusiasm.

"I tell you, nothing but a warrior's life becomes ethel-born men,"
he said as he straightened himself with a gallant gesture. "Nor
sluggishness nor junketings, but days under fire and nights among the
Wise Men of the council; that, in truth, becomes their station. By Saint
Mary, I feel that I have never lived before! One week at the heels of
Edmund Ironside is worth a lifetime under the banner of any other king."

A pause met his warmth somewhat coldly; and the warrior who broke the
silence lowered his voice to do it.

"Keep in mind, lord, that it is no more than a week that you have been
at his heels," he said.

"Likewise bear in mind whose son he is," the man with the drinking-horn
added grimly. He was a stout white-bearded old cniht with an obstinate
old face that looked something like a ruddy apple in a snow-bank.
Flushing, the young noble ceased examining his sword-edge to meet the
eyes bent upon him.

"I hope you do not think I stand in need of a rebuke for lukewarmness,
Morcard," he said gravely. "I have no more forgot that King Edmund's
father gave the order for my father's murder than I have forgot that
Edric was the tool who did the deed. May Saint Peter exterminate him
with his sword!