And Eric of Norway smote his thigh with the half resentful laugh of a man who has been told the answer to a riddle which he has given up. “I will confess that your wit surpasses mine in matters of cunning. I did suspect that you might think it unfeasible to kill him before the face of his army, but I had no idea that it would be possible to get the land from him both according to law and without further fighting or loss of men. On a lucky day is the King born who has a mind like this!” One after another, all the nobles echoed the sentiment; until even the mob of soldiers found courage to voice their minds. “His wit is made out of Sleipnir’s heels!” “Skroppa herself could not be foreknowing about him!” “I am as glad now as I was disappointed when I saw him take his blade off the Ironside—” “When I saw that, I thought I would turn English—” “They will try now to turn Danish.” “You speak well, for he will get great fame on account of his wisdom.” So they filled the air with marvelling admiration. Standing in silent listening, Canute’s gaze travelled from face to face until it came to the spot where Elfgiva fluttered among her women, holding her exquisite head as if it already wore a crown. An odd gleam flickered over his eyes, and he made a step toward her. “You!” he said. “What do you believe?” Pealing her silvery laughter, she turned toward him, her eyes peeping at him like bright birds from under the eaves of her hood. “Lord, I believe that I am afraid of you!” she coquetted. “When I bethink me that all the time I have been chiding you for being unambitious for glory, you have had this in your mind! I shall never presume to compass your moods again. Yes. Oh, yes! I shall see daggers in your smile and poison in your lightest word.” Laughing, she stooped and kissed his hand with the first semblance of respect which she had ever shown him. In the Danish girl’s embrace, Dearwyn shivered and nestled closer. “Randalin, you hear her? She thinks he did it.” “She is a foolish woman,” Randalin said impatiently, “and if she do not take care, she will feel it for speaking so. See how his fingers tap his belt for all that his face is so still.” His face was curiously still as he regarded the beautiful Elfgiva,—and stilly curious, as though he were examining some familiar object in a new light. “You believe then that I had him murdered?” he asked. “And you find pleasure in believing it?” “Now it is not murder!” she protested. “When a king kills—in war—” “But this is not war,” he said slowly. Lifting one of the jewelled braids from her shoulder, he played with it as he studied her. “This is not war, for I had reconciled myself to him. I had plighted faith with Edmund Ethelredsson and vowed to avenge his death like a brother.”