f the
nobles."

"He is--the horse--that King Canute said--you should take," the man
panted, as he struggled to keep his footing. "He said to fetch--Praise
Odin!" For at that moment, Canute's silver horn gave the signal, and he
was free to leap aside.

Randalin's trained hand upon the reins was as firm as it was light, and
her trained eye was keenly alert to every motion of the black ears, but
in her brain all was whirling confusion,--and no longer any thought of
her tunic. What was the King's purpose in making this change? Certainly
he was in no mood to honor her,--what could he have in his mind? While
her tongue answered mechanically to Ulf Jarl's observations concerning
the weather and the fair farmland they were riding through, her eyes
were furtively examining her companions' steeds. No fiery ambitions
disturbed their easy gait, spirited though they were. Indeed, Elfgiva,
looking back at this moment, singled her out with a rippling laugh.

"By the blessed Ethelberga, you have a horse in all respects befitting
your spirit, my shield-maiden! I hope it is not the King's intention to
punish you by frightening you."

Could it be possible that he should stoop to so unworthy an action,
the girl asked herself? And yet it was as understandable as any of his
behavior during the last fortnight. Suddenly it seemed that a hand had
awakened the Viking blood which slumbered in her veins; it fired her
cheeks and flashed from under her lashes. She answered clearly, "I hope
it is not, lady,--for he would experience disappointment."

From all sides laughter went up, but there was no time for more, for now
a hunter--one of the men who had brought news of the lair--galloped up,
dust-choked and breathless.

"He has broken cover, King!" he gasped. "He is moving windward--loose
the hounds--or--you will miss him--"

Canute's horn was at his lips before the last broken phrase was out.
"Forward!" he shouted with a blast. "The hounds, and forward!" A
whirlwind seemed to strike the ambling train and sweep them over the
ground like autumn leaves.

Over stubble fields and leaf-carpeted lanes, with half frightened smiles
upon their parted lips, Elfgiva and her fair ones kept up bravely; then
across a stream into a thicket, over hollows and fallen logs, under
low-hanging boughs, through brush and brier and bramble,--leaping,
dodging, tearing, crashing. Leonorine the Timid uttered a cry, as her
horse slid down a bank with his feet bunched