“By Thor and Odin and the tail of the mare of Hengist--these Welsh outfool themselves. Know you not that I lie betwixt your host and Ceawlin?” Ethne laughed also--a weak, forced laugh. “A jest--a jest, Sir King! Pardonable, surely, at least and merry-making!” “A jest!” repeated Ethelbert. “And if one be pardonable, likewise a second. What then of Ceawlin! He also might find my terms easier if I ask his aid against you.” “Well said, King Ethelbert! Your jest hath given mine its death-blow. Men do belie you Saxons when they call you witless. A very subtle wit, indeed, you seem to me to have.” She laughed--again the same forced laughter. Then suddenly she broke down--she burst into one of her paroxysms of rage, as some women burst into tears. The pent-up wrath escaped. “You Jutish churl!” she shrieked. “Do you treat us like slaves--to be used and then cast off like clouts? Fight we will--but against you, not with you. I will not rest till your bloody head be brought me and I have hacked out your sneering tongue myself.” Her angry voice rang through the hall. She could be plainly seen, as she stood upright in her glittering robes. She drew her sword from her girdle and it flashed above her head. She had feared a bloody break-up to the banquet--and now she herself had brought it about. The brawl spread, quick as lightning. Within three minutes after Ethne’s voice had rung through the hall, ten men were slain and thirty wounded. The alarm was sounded on both sides--and within an hour a desperate battle between the Kymry and Saxons was in full course. Before nightfall Ethne and Cormac had been taken prisoners. CHAPTER XVIII. ENGLAND’S FIRST CHRISTIAN QUEEN. The foster-brother and sister were imprisoned in one of the rooms of the Roman villa, in which the feast had been held. They were not fettered, but were carefully watched by a strong body of soldiers. They were to be put to death upon the following day. Their great army had scattered in every direction; a great number of prisoners had been taken by the Saxons. The Black Horse had failed! The man and woman sat as far from each other as the room would allow. Cormac sat with his face buried in his hands. Ethne crouched like a wild animal caught in its lair; her body still quivered with the war-passion of the evening before; her face was swollen from the blows she had received; her beautiful hair was matted with blood, and blood stained her white skin and her tattered finery. Cormac could not bear to look at her. He knew now the part she had played with Redwald. During the long night she had told him everything--told it him fiercely--with wild, heathen oaths. In her despair and rage there was still some pleasure in letting him know of Elgiva’s fate. In all the tumult and distress of Cormac’s mind Elgiva’s loss seemed scarcely harder to bear than that Ethne should prove so treacherous and vile.