ithesome form, while the mossy green of her
velvet mantle brought out the rich coloring of her face as leaves bring
out the glowing splendor of a rose. Gold was in the embroidery that
stiffened her trailing skirts; gold was sewn into her gloves, and golden
chains twined in her lustrous hair added to the spirited poise of her
head a touch of stateliness. No wonder that her mouth curved into a
smile as she gazed.

"It cannot be denied that I look woman-like now," she murmured. "It is a
great boon for me that he likes my hair."

Then the water lost both the reflection and the face above it as a sweet
voice sounded up the bank, calling, "Randalin! Randalin!"

Picking up the branchful of scarlet berries which she had dropped,
Frode's daughter moved toward the voice. "Are they about to go,
Dearwyn?" she asked the little gentlewoman who came toward her around a
hawthorn bush, lifting her silken skirts daintily.

Dearwyn shook her head. "My lady wishes to try on you the wreath she has
made. She thinks your dark locks will set it off better than our light
ones."

"I was on my way thither," Randalin said, quickening her steps.

With timid friendliness in her pretty face, Dearwyn waited, and the
Danish girl gave her a shy smile when at last they stood side by side;
but their acquaintanceship did not appear to have reached the point of
conversation, for they walked back in silence to the spot where the Lady
Elfgiva's train had halted on its journey for a noonday meal and rest.

Along the bank of a pebbly stream, between pickets of mounted guards,
the troop of holiday-folk was strung in scattered groups. Yonder, a body
of the King's huntsmen struggled with braces of leashed hounds. Here
were gathered together the falconers bearing the King's birds. Nearer,
a band of grooms led the King's blooded horses to the water. And nearer
yet, where the sun lay warm on a leafy glade, the King's beautiful
"Danish wife" took her nooning amid her following of maids and of pages,
of ribboned wenches and baggage-laden slaves.

As her glance fell upon this last picture, Randalin drew a quick breath
of admiration. While they waited for the bondwomen to restore to the
hampers the crystal goblets and gold-fringed napkins that even in the
wood wastes must minister to such delicate lips, one merry little lady
was launching fleets of beech-nut rinds down the stream; another,
armed with a rush-spear, was making bold attack on the slumbers of some
w