spun on, carelessly
good-humored, as they climbed the wind-ing hill-path.

Across the ditch and through the wide-open gate in the moss-grown
palisade, and they came into a broad grassy space that was more like a
lawn than a court. Ahead of them rose the massive three-storied tower,
built of mighty gray stones without softening wings or adorning spires,
beautiful only in its mantling ivy. From the great door in its side a
crowd of serfs came running, ducking grinning salutations; and they were
followed by a half-dozen old warriors. Seized by a boyish whim, their
master rode past them with no more than a wave of his hand.

"If we make haste, it may be that we can take Hildelitha and Father
Ingulph by surprise," he laughed, leaping down on the crumbling doorstep
and pulling his captive with him.

In the tunnel-like arch of the great entrance they met another throng,
but he shook them off with good-natured impatience and hurried through
the great guard-room to the winding stairs, that were cut out of the
core of the massive stones. Up and across another mighty hall, and
then up again, and into a great women's-room, full of looms and
spinning-wheels, where a buxom English housewife and half-a-dozen
red-cheeked maids were gaping over their distaffs at the tale a jolly
old monk was telling between swallows of wine.

He choked in his cup when he saw who stood laughing in the doorway, and
there was a great screaming and scrambling among his audience. Knocking
over her spinning-wheel to get to him, the woman Hildelitha threw her
arms around her young lord's neck and gave him a hearty smack on either
cheek; while the fat monk sputtered blessings between his paroxysms
of coughing, and the six blooming girls made a screaming circle around
them.

Though he endured it amiably enough, the Etheling appeared in some
haste to offer a diversion. He evaded a second embrace by turning and
beckoning to his shrinking captive.

"Save a little of your greeting for my guest, good nurse. Behold the
fire-eating Dane that I have captured with my own right arm!" As the
red-cloaked figure still hung back, he pulled it gently forward until
the light of the notched candles fell brightly on the face, pitifully
white for all its blood-stains, in the frame of tumbled black tresses.

"A Dane?" the women cried shrilly; then, with equal unanimity, burst out
laughing. Randalin drew a little nearer the Etheling's sheltering side.
He said half reproving