fledgeling she felt herself. She was in the toils, surely, but
there was a shell around her. Glad to hide her face for a moment, she
seized the goblet and drained it slowly to the last drop. If only she
could remember just how Fridtjof had borne himself! As she swallowed the
last mouthful, a recollection came to her of the thrall-women grumbling
over Fridtjof's wine-stained tunics; and she carefully drew her sleeve
across her mouth as she set down the cup.

Leaning back in his seat, the King took frowning measure of his guest,
from the toe of her spurred riding-boot to the top of the green cap
which she had forgotten to remove. His mood seemed wavering between
annoyance and amusement; a word could decide the balance. With her last
swallow he repeated his challenge.

"Are you capable now of giving me any reason why I should not have
you flogged from the camp? Is it your opinion that because I choose to
behave foolishly before my friends, I am desirous to have tale-bearing
boys listening?"

"Boys" again! Randalin's sinking spirit rallied at the assurance as her
fainting body had revived under the rich warmth of the mead.

She managed to stammer out, "I entreat you not to be angry, Lord King.
It was the fault of the man on guard that I came in as I did. And I did
not understand six of the words you spoke,--I beseech you to believe
it."

That she had in truth been too frightened for intelligent eavesdropping,
the remaining pallor of her face made it easy to believe. The scales
tipped ever so little.

"Did you think you had fallen into a bear pit?" the King asked with a
faint smile, that sharpened swiftly to bitterness. "After all, it
would matter little what anyone told of me. Without doubt your kin have
already taught you to call me thrall-bred and witless. Little more can
be said."

That from the warrior whose foot was already planted on the neck of
England! In her surprise, Randalin's eyes met his squarely. "By no
means, King Canute; my father called you the highest-minded man in the
world."

The young leader flushed scarlet, flushed till he felt the burning, and
averted his face to hide it. He said in a low voice, "Many things have
been told of me that I count for naught, but this--this has not been
said of me before. Tell me his name."

"He was called Frode, the Dane of Avalcomb." The red mouth trembled
a little. "He is dead now. He was slain last night, by Norman
Leofwinesson, who is Edric Jarl's thane."