to her, he could be dear no longer, or she would never have betrayed his trust and dared his hate to save Ivarsdale Tower—and its master. Sebert winced and put up his hand to shut out the vision as he realized at whose feet her heart lay now, like a pitiful bruised flower. Meanwhile, the son of Lodbrok had been drawing heavily on his scant stock of patience. Suddenly, he ran out completely. Seizing the Etheling by the shoulders, before he could raise finger in resistance, he thrust him through the open doorway into the garden, a target for every startled glance. After which, he himself stalked grimly on to await him at the city gate. CHAPTER XXII. How The Lord of Ivarsdale Paid His Debt To his friend A man should be a friend, And gifts with gifts requite. Hávamál. A moment, it was to Randalin, Frode’s daughter, as if the heavens had let fall a star at her feet. Then her wonder changed to exultation, as she realized that it was not chance but because of her bidding that the man she loved stood before her. Only because she had asked it, he had come through pitfalls and death-traps, and now faced, alone, the gathered might of his foes. Glorying in his deed, she stood shining sun-like upon him until the red cloaks of the advancing warriors came between like scarlet clouds. “Who are you?.... What is your errand?.... How came you here?” she heard them demand. And, after a pause, in disbelieving chorus, “Rothgar Lodbroksson! .... Does that sound likely?.... Where is he, then?” “You are trying to lie out of something—” “You are an English spy! Seize him! Bind him!” The scarlet cloaks drew together into a swaying mass; a dozen blades glittered in the sun. With a gasp, she came out of her trance to catch at the royal mantle. “Lord King, you promised to give him safety!” The seriousness which had darkened Canute’s face at the intrusion vanished off it as breath-mist off a mirror. “Is it only your Englishman?” he asked, between a laugh and a frown. She grudged the time the words took. “Yes, yes! Pray be as quick as you can!” He did not seem bitten by her haste, but he took a step forward, clanging his gold-bound scabbard against the stone well-curbing to make himself heard. “Unhand the Lord of Ivarsdale, my chiefs,” he ordered. As they sent him incredulous glances over their shoulders, he further explained his will by a gesture; and they fell away, murmuring, the swords gliding like bright serpents back to their holes. Then he made another sign, this time to the stranger. “We will accept your greeting now, Englishman, even though you have been hindered in the giving of it,” he said politely.