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As they neared the arched gateway, red with the cloaks of the royal guards, it seemed to Randalin that an icy hand had closed about her heart. The blood was ebbing from Elfgiva's face, and it could be seen that she was forced to keep moistening her lips with her tongue.
The petition brought back to Randalin her own famished condition so sharply that her answer was unnecessarily petulant, and the man disappeared before the question could even be put to him. Two miles more, and nothing was in front of her but a flock of ragged blackbirds circling over a trampled wheat-field. Already the sun's round chin rested on the crest of the farthest hill.
It was Randalin who first awoke to a consciousness that the noise of the rabble had become very faint behind them, that no sounds at all broke the stillness ahead of them, that the uneven weed-grown path they were treading was very different from the smooth hardness of the Watling Street. Fens on either side of them, a low hill to the front was this the way to London?
Leave off your bashfulness and tell us your deeds of valor!" A score of hands were stretched forth to draw the boy into the circle; a score of horns were held out for his refreshment. To all of them Randalin yielded silently, silently accepting the cup which was nearest, in order to gain time by sipping its contents.
"Disquiet yourself no further," she whispered. "It is useless and to no end. If it please the Lord to bless our labors, the wound will soon be healed. Come this way, where he cannot hear our voices, and tell me what moves you to speak of leaving. Is it not your intention to creep in with us?" As she yielded reluctantly to the pressure, Randalin even showed surprise at the question. "By no means.
Perhaps it was to follow the King's suggestion, perhaps it was only to vent his reproaches; but Randalin did not wait to see. Before she knew how she got there, she was at Elfgiva's side, clutching at her mantle. "Lady! You promised me " she cried. And for all her chiming laughter, Elfgiva's silken arm was stretched out like a bar. "No further, good Giant!" she said gayly.
"I meant no harm," she was wailing with stiff lips. "The scroll said not a word that it was hurtful. Do not kill me. I meant no " The word ended in an inarticulate sound and she swayed backward. It was Randalin who caught and eased her down upon the rustic chair, and Randalin who turned upon the Tall One. "Saw I never a meaner man!" she cried. "Certainly I think Loke was less wolf-minded than you.
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.
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.
"It seems that the Saints are going to take pity on me and shorten one of these endless days with a nap. Nurse, have a care for these scrolls. And if it happen that the King's Marshal comes Randalin! Where is Randalin?" Beyond Leonorine's embroidery frame and the stool where Candida bent over her lyre, the length of the room away, a figure in iris-blue turned from the window by which it stood.
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