Randalin heard his words, but at the moment she was too deep in angry embarrassment to heed them. It seemed to her that every eye in the throng was fastened upon her as she walked forward, that every mouth buzzed comment behind her. It was not until she was in the saddle that his intention reached her understanding. The powerful black charger, which a groom led toward her, had been pawing and arching his glossy neck impatiently since the first horn set his blood-drops dancing; at the touch of her foot upon the stirrup, he snorted satisfaction through his wide-flaring nostrils and would have leaped forward like a stone from a sling, if the man had not hung himself upon the bit. The girl awoke to surprise as she barely managed to reach her seat by the most agile of springs. “This is not the horse I ride, Dudda! He must belong to one of the nobles.” “He is—the horse—that King Canute said—you should take,” the man panted, as he struggled to keep his footing. “He said to fetch—Praise Odin!” For at that moment, Canute’s silver horn gave the signal, and he was free to leap aside. Randalin’s trained hand upon the reins was as firm as it was light, and her trained eye was keenly alert to every motion of the black ears, but in her brain all was whirling confusion,—and no longer any thought of her tunic. What was the King’s purpose in making this change? Certainly he was in no mood to honor her,—what could he have in his mind? While her tongue answered mechanically to Ulf Jarl’s observations concerning the weather and the fair farmland they were riding through, her eyes were furtively examining her companions’ steeds. No fiery ambitions disturbed their easy gait, spirited though they were. Indeed, Elfgiva, looking back at this moment, singled her out with a rippling laugh. “By the blessed Ethelberga, you have a horse in all respects befitting your spirit, my shield-maiden! I hope it is not the King’s intention to punish you by frightening you.” Could it be possible that he should stoop to so unworthy an action, the girl asked herself? And yet it was as understandable as any of his behavior during the last fortnight. Suddenly it seemed that a hand had awakened the Viking blood which slumbered in her veins; it fired her cheeks and flashed from under her lashes. She answered clearly, “I hope it is not, lady,—for he would experience disappointment.” From all sides laughter went up, but there was no time for more, for now a hunter—one of the men who had brought news of the lair—galloped up, dust-choked and breathless. “He has broken cover, King!” he gasped. “He is moving windward—loose the hounds—or—you will miss him—” Canute’s horn was at his lips before the last broken phrase was out. “Forward!” he shouted with a blast. “The hounds, and forward!” A whirlwind seemed to strike the ambling train and sweep them over the ground like autumn leaves.