Elfgiva dropped the gilded quoits to wring her hands. “Is it the English, my lord?” she implored of Eric of Norway. “Is it the English attacking us? Shall we be killed?” “Think you that Danes cheer like that when they are expecting death?” the Norseman reassured her with a hearty laugh. “It is good news,—great news since the whole mob has thought it safe to bring it. Hark! Can you hear what it is that they add after the King’s name?” Listening, everyone stood motionless as the babel came nearer with a swiftness which spoke much for the speed of the shouters. Only Randalin’s little red shoe began to tap the earth impatiently. What did it matter what they said? “Hail to Canute of Denmark!” “Hail to the King of the Danes and—” Again cheers drowned the rest. The pages, who had sped at the first alarm like a covey of gay birds, came panting back, tumbling over one another in their efforts to impart the news. “A messenger!” “A messenger from Oxford—” “From Edric—” “Edmund is—” “—Edmund—” “A messenger!” one cancelled another in the wild excitement. Elfgiva caught the nearest and shook him until his teeth chattered; and in the lull, the swelling shout reached them for the first time unbroken: “Honor to the King! Hail to the King of the Danes and the Angles!” From the Lord of Ivarsdale came a cry, sharp as though a heart-string had snapped in its utterance, the tie that for generations had bound those of his blood to the house of Cerdic. “Edmund?” The mob of soldiers and servants that burst through the doorway answered his question with exultant shouts: “Edmund is dead! Edmund is dead! Long live Canute the King! King of the Danes and the Angles!” Unbidden, memory raised before Randalin a picture of the English camp-fire in the glade, with the English King standing in its light and the hooded figure bending from the shadow behind him, its white taloned hand resting on his sleeve. An instant she shivered at it; then again her foot stirred with unendurable restlessness. If he was dead, he was dead, and there was no more to be said. Was the Etheling always going to stand as though he were turned to stone? Would he never—— Ah, at last he was moving! As if the news had only just reached home to him, she saw him draw himself together sharply and stride toward the door; and she watched feverishly to see if anyone would think to stop him. One group he passed—and another—and another—now he was on the threshold. Her pulses leaped as she recognized Rothgar, in the throng pouring into the garden with the messenger, but quieted again when she saw that the two passed shoulder to shoulder without a look, without a thought, for each other. Now he was out of sight.