"Thou art a desperate rogue, Morten!" growled the old man--"hast thou 'ticed us hither that we might have the sorrow to see thee dangle? Then thou shalt never have my daughter--I had well nigh said--but that follows of itself, I trow. What hath got the great lords who were to help thee? 'Tis all chatter and bragging, we shall find, and thou art as yet but an impudent madcap, as thou ever wast." "Hush, Father Jeppe! Look! yonder come great lords and knights enow; who knows whether one of them will not break a lance with the king in honour of Morten the cook?--And look--there he comes himself." "Out of the way, madcap! _him_ thou art not worthy to look on," said the fisherman, pushing back the outlawed pilgrim with violence, while he carefully concealed him. "_I_ dare, the Lord be thanked and praised for it, look our noble king in the face without creeping to hide behind an honest fellow's back." All eyes were now turned only upon the procession, and the air rang with loyal acclamations for the king and his beautiful bride. However high expectation had been raised, and however greatly report had exalted the beauty and loveable deportment of the noble Princess Ingeborg, all who now beheld her seemed to be struck with her appearance, even in a greater degree than they had anticipated. She sat between her own mother. Queen Helvig, and the king's mother, Countess Agnes, in the large, open ladies' car; she was as yet only attired in a simple but tasteful travelling dress; no showy pomp and splendour heightened her beauty; but none inquired who was the bride.