Sebert’s foot rang upon the ground. “Say then that the Devil sent it, and a truce to this juggling! Since you know that I am the boy’s friend, you understand that any harm he has suffered is a harm to me, and that my sword is equally ready to avenge it.” Much to his surprise, the Dane accorded this challenge no notice whatever. He stood studying the Lord of Ivarsdale with eyes in which malicious amusement was growing into open mirth. It came out in another laugh. “Now it would be more unlikely than the wonder which has occurred, yet I begin to believe you! I myself will guide you to your Fridtjof, only for the pleasure of watching your face. The Fates are no such step-mothers after all!” He turned in the direction from which he had come and made the other a sign. “This way, if you dare to follow. I am not afraid to go first, so you need give no thought of the chances of steel between your ribs.” The Etheling took his hand off his weapon with a twinge of shame; but he was not without misgivings as he strode along at Rothgar’s heels. Unless the youngling had made a decided change for the worse, what satisfaction could the Jotun expect to get from witnessing their meeting? Before his mind, there rose again the tear-stained boyish face which had bidden him farewell that night at the postern, and his pulses throbbed with a fierce pity. “He took himself from the one person who was dear to him, poor little cub,” he murmured. “If they have maimed him, I swear I will tuck him under my arm and cut my way out though there be a wall of the brutes around him.” His musings came to an end, as the man preceding him stopped suddenly where one of the milky panes broken from the cloister window gave a view of the cloister garden. With the cold November sunshine a hum of voices was coming in, now brightened by peals of laughter, again blurred by the thud of falling quoits. Over the Jotun’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of gorgeous nobles and fair-haired women scattered in graceful groups about a sunny old garden, green in the very face of winter, thanks to the protecting shelter of the gray walls. Only a glimpse,—for even as he looked, Rothgar caught his cloak and pulled him ahead. “Yonder door is a better place to look through; already it is open, and the shadow inside is thick enough to hide us.” Pricked as he was by a dozen spurs, Sebert offered no resistance. In a moment, they stood just out of reach of the square of light which fell through the open doorway. Framed in carved stone, the quaint old garden with its gravelled paths, its weedless turfs and its background of ivy-hung walls, lay before them like a picture.