She let her suspended breath go from her in a long sigh. “It is good that everyone is too excited to notice what I do,” she said to herself. And even as she said it she realized that her limbs were shaking under her, that she was sick unto faintness. “I am going to finish dying now, and I welcome it,” she murmured. Staggering to a little bench under one of the old oaks, she sank down upon it and leaned her head against the tree trunk and waited. CHAPTER XXIII. A Blood-stained Crown He is happy Who in himself possesses Fame and wit while living; For bad counsels Have oft been received From another’s breast. Hávamál. “Tata!” That was the pet name which Elfgiva had given to her Danish attendant because it signified lively one. “Tata! I have looked everywhere for you!” The pat of light feet, a swish of silken skirts, and Dearwyn had thrown herself upon the bench under the oak tree, her little dimpled face radiant. “What are you doing here in this corner where you can see nothing? How! Are you not overcome with delight? Only think that Elfgiva will be a queen and we shall all go to London!” As the only adequate means of expression, she threw her arms around her friend in a rapturous embrace. Something in the touch of her soft body, the caress of her satin hands, was indefinably comforting. Randalin’s arms closed about her and pressed her close, while the little gentlewoman chided her gayly. “What is the matter with you that you are so silent as to your tongue, when you must needs be shouting in your heart? You are as bad as the King, who stands looking from one to another and speaks not a word. Does your coldness arise from dignity? Then let me lose all the state I have and be held for a farmer’s lass, for I am going to stand up here where I can see everything.” Disengaging herself gently, she climbed upon the bench as she chattered. “The messenger had a leather bag around his neck which I think likely contains Edmund’s crown and—Ah, Tata, look l look! Thorkel is holding it up!” As cries of savage rejoicing mingled with the uproar, Randalin found herself dragged up, whether she would or no, until she stood beside her companion, gazing over the heads of the shouting throng. Yes, it was Edmund’s crown. Again, a picture of the English camp-fire rose before her, and she shivered as she recognized the graceful pearled points she had last seen upon the Ironside’s stately head. Now Thorkel was setting them above the Danish circlet on Canute’s shining locks, while the shouts merged into a roar of acclamation. Like blowing flowers, the women bent before him, and the naked swords of his nobles made a glittering arch above him. “But why does he look so strange?” Randalin said suddenly. And Dearwyn laid a finger on her lip. “Hush! At last he is going to speak.”