But in the midst of her triumph Ethne was moved to disgust. In days gone by she had entertained her guests--polished Greeks and Romans--at flower-strewn tables to the music of singing maidens; the air sweet from perfumed fountains and the wine-flagons garlanded with roses. Now her guests fought with their food as animals with their prey; they scrambled together for the possession of tit-bits, and swallowed great junks of flesh with the ease and rapidity of the hounds at their feet; to the perpetual discord of dirk on platter there was a harsh, pervading accompaniment of men munching their food as animals munch their corn. Like animals, too, she thought they looked, clad wholly in sheep and goat-skins--even their trews of hide; their yellow hair swart from neglect, their fine skins chafed and roughened by sun and air; with grass and hay bound round their feet. And to these savages she must sue! Filthy, unwashed, barbarous--feasting in the ruins they had made. “A goodly sight, O King!” she said, turning to the Anglo-Saxon in a seat of honour at her side. “These fine warriors are the admiration of the Britons, even on our only meeting-ground, the battle-field--therefore, a thousand times more at festival!” “And yet I thought but just now, from your manner of looking at them, and from your nostrils’ twitching that you would sooner my warriors were at battle-distance than with you at cup and meat!” Many of the Saxon thanes at the upper table had added a unique ornament to their appearance--the waving length of a peacock’s feather. For when the servers had entered bearing aloft these dainties with their gorgeous tails outspread--a wild scramble had ensued that each might obtain one of the feathers. “Now, indeed, O King, you wrong me!” returned Ethne, in her sweetest manner, “and for your words you must needs at once pledge me in this loving-cup, and pledge me in the ale you love so well.” From a beautiful slave she took a golden bowl that glittered with emeralds, and drinking from it first, held it herself to the lips of her companion. But he took it coldly into his own hand, turning it with particular care that he might drink from the very spot which her lips had pressed. He returned it to the slave--spilling clumsily the remainder on Ethne’s sweeping robes. A sound between a chuckle and a grunt escaped him. “I drink from the same spot with you,” he said, “but I give you no fair words, but the truth, as my reason. You look at me so honey-sweet and mouth your words so smoothly--and I have heard full many tales of sweet words and poisoned cup!” Ethne sighed audibly; she leaned towards him with seductive grace. “Let us continue, then, as we have begun, O King Ethelbert! Give me the truth only, or what you deem the truth--and leave me to find the sweet words myself.” She smiled and her ugly tusks showed themselves.