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And whether he did not see her bridling displeasure, or whether he saw and no longer cared to appease it, the result was the same. Randalin spoke abruptly to her companion. "Dearwyn, I can tell you something. Elfgiva will never get the queenship over England." "What moves you to say that?" the little English girl asked her, startled.
He is happy Who in himself possesses Fame and wit while living; For bad counsels Have oft been received From another's breast. Ha'vama'l. "Tata!" That was the pet name which Elfgiva had given to her Danish attendant because it signified lively one. "Tata! I have looked everywhere for you!"
"It should have been a great joy to me that he was still safe and happy... and I should have found some hope in it, also, for as long as he is in England there would always be the chance that I might see him again... And perhaps, after a long while, when he had quite forgotten how I looked as Fridtjof... if I should be able to learn many graceful woman's ways from Elfgiva... and if he should come upon me when I had on a very beautiful kirtle... so long as he likes my hair..."
"The King will never come to this rubbish heap," she told herself despairingly. "Here we are buried no less than if we lay in a mound. It is not likely that we shall get news by an easier way than by going to him." Straining her eyes out over the mist-robed river, she tried for the thousandth time to think of some bait alluring enough to tempt Elfgiva to that point of daring.
Then it was Thorkel's sardonic voice that brought the Lady of Northampton back to herself. "Now, is this how you take the sight of your own handiwork? Or is it because you regret that the King is not in this plight? One mouthful and no more has she had of the blood of the coiled snake." Stopping where she was, Elfgiva gazed at him, and with a dawning comprehension came back her interrupted fury.
The whole troop of butterfly pages rushed forward to take possession of the horses; the little gentlewomen made a fluttering group behind their mistress; and Elfgiva, laughing in sweetest mockery, swept back her rosy robes in a lowly reverence. "Hail, lord of half a kingdom but of the whole of my heart!" she greeted him.
The King!" could be heard again and again, and after it a burst of deafening cheers that drowned the rest. Elfgiva dropped the gilded quoits to wring her hands. "Is it the English, my lord?" she implored of Eric of Norway. "Is it the English attacking us? Shall we be killed?" "Think you that Danes cheer like that when they are expecting death?" the Norseman reassured her with a hearty laugh.
"Help me, help me!" she gasped; as Elfgiva swooped upon both of them, her streaming hair taking on a resemblance to bristling fur, her eyes showing more of opal's fire than of heaven's blue. "Come not betwixt, or I will treat you in a like manner," the mistress panted. "Do you understand the evil she has wrought?
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