At the moment that he was making sure of his booty in the safe darkness of a passage, the Lord of Ivarsdale was pursuing his object along the chill enclosure of the gallery. The November sunlight that, unsoftened by any filter of rich-tinted glass, fell coldly upon the worn stone, showed the carrels beneath the windows to be one and all deserted by their monkish occupants, and he strode along unhampered by curious eye or ear. “After all this luck,” he congratulated himself, “it will go hard with me if I do not either stumble on the youngling himself, or someone who can give me news of him.” He had no more than thought it, when the sound reached him of a door closing somewhere along the next side of the square, followed by the clank of spurred feet coming heavily toward him. As they drew nearer, the rattle of a sword also became audible. Lifting his eyebrows dubiously, the Etheling grasped his own weapon beneath his cloak. When the feet had brought their owner around the corner into sight, he did not feel that his motion had been a mistaken one, for the man who was advancing was Rothgar Lodbroksson. It flashed through Sebert’s mind that the old cniht’s forebodings had not been without cause, and that Ivarsdale was in danger of changing masters by a process much quicker than a month’s siege. He stared in amazement when the Dane, instead of flashing out his blade, stopped short with a burst of jeering laughter. “Here is the Englishman arrived, and he looks small enough now!” he cried in his thunderous voice. “Has it happened that I am to be the bower-thane who is to fetch you in!” Sebert’s grasp tightened around his hilt. Apparently the son of Lodbrok was expecting him! Yet even on a forlorn hope, he deemed it wise not to commit himself. He said with what haughtiness he could muster, “What should a plain traveller want with a bower-thane, Danishman? I stand in more need of the cellarer who is to provide me with a meal.” Another jeering outburst interrupted him. “Now I say nothing against it if you declare yourself looking for sweetmeats! Well, I will be the cellarer, and lead you to them.” “I do not understand you,” Sebert said slowly, and quite truthfully. The Dane grinned at him. “I mean that I will fetch you in to the one who sent you the summons.” “The one who sent you the summons?” Certainly that sounded as though he were using the words to conceal a name. Neither the Etheling’s patience nor his temper was long enough to reach below the knee. He made a swift gesture of throwing aside all reserve. “Enough of mystery, Danishman! If the message which I have received was not sent by Fridtjof Frodesson, it was sent by you. Be honest enough to admit it and say plainly what your intention is toward me.” “Fridtjof Frodesson,” the Jotun mocked, and his fiery eyes probed the Englishman like knives. “Now since honesty is to your wish, I will go so far as to confess that the word came neither from Frode’s son nor from me.”