Meanwhile, Richard, looking into the litter, saw Carloman crouching in a corner, sobbing with fright. "Carloman!--dear Carloman!--do not cry. Come out! It is I--your own Richard! Will you not let me welcome you?" Carloman looked, caught at the outstretched hand, and clung to his neck. "Oh, Richard, send us back! Do not let the savage Danes kill us!" "No one will hurt you. There are no Danes here. You are my guest, my friend, my brother. Look up! here is my own Fru Astrida." "But my mother said the Northmen would kill us for keeping you captive. She wept and raved, and the cruel men dragged us away by force. Oh, let us go back!" "I cannot do that," said Richard; "for you are the King of Denmark's captives, not mine; but I will love you, and you shall have all that is mine, if you will only not cry, dear Carloman. Oh, Fru Astrida, what shall I do? You comfort him--" as the poor boy clung sobbing to him. Fru Astrida advanced to take his hand, speaking in a soothing voice, but he shrank and started with a fresh cry of terror--her tall figure, high cap, and wrinkled face, were to him witch-like, and as she knew no French, he understood not her kind words. However, he let Richard lead him into the hall, where Lothaire sat moodily in the chair, with one leg tucked under him, and his finger in his mouth. "I say, Sir Duke," said he, "is there nothing to be had in this old den of yours? Not a drop of Bordeaux?" Richard tried to repress his anger at this very uncivil way of speaking, and answered, that he thought there was none, but there was plenty of Norman cider. "As if I would taste your mean peasant drinks! I bade them bring my supper--why does it not come?" "Because you are not master here," trembled on Richard's lips, but he forced it back, and answered that it would soon be ready, and Carloman looked imploringly at his brother, and said, "Do not make them angry, Lothaire." "What, crying still, foolish child?" said Lothaire. "Do you not know that if they dare to cross us, my father will treat them as they deserve? Bring supper, I say, and let me have a pasty of ortolans." "There are none--they are not in season," said Richard. "Do you mean to give me nothing I like? I tell you it shall be the worse for you." "There is a pullet roasting," began Richard. "I tell you, I do not care for pullets--I will have ortolans." "If I do not take order with that boy, my name is not Eric," muttered the Baron. "What must he not have made our poor child suffer!" returned Fru Astrida, "but the little one moves my heart. How small and weakly he is, but it is worth anything to see our little Duke so tender to him."