But the Valkyria’s fear of Elfgiva’s tongue did not extend to Elfgiva’s hands. Catching the dimpled wrists, she held them off with perfect coolness, as she said soothingly, “Now you tire yourself much, lady; and you will tire yourself more if you consent to the entertainment I came hither to propose.” She laughed, a little excitedly, as a thought struck her. “It may even be that you will not blame her for this, but rather take it as a sign that my advice is good.” To say “sign” to Elfgiva was something like saying “cream” to a cat. Gradually she ceased trying to free her hands, to gaze at her captor. “What do you mean by that? Or have you any meaning except only trying for an excuse to get this hussy off from punishment?” “No, in truth, for I thought of it before I knew that trouble had happened to her,” Randalin answered; and now she knew that it was safe to release the wrists. “I will show you. I was thinking how it might cause amusement to us to ride into the City and see what the goldsmiths have in their booths. And then I came in here and found you in need of goldsmiths’ mending! Does not that look like a sign that my thought is good?” Elfgiva threw aside the candle to come close and lay her hands upon the girl’s breast. “Good for what?” she demanded. “Do you think it likely that I might fall in with the King somewhere in the City?” This was going a bit faster than Randalin had planned, and her breath came quickly, but she took the risk and admitted it. “I did hope that it might happen that we would see the King,” she said, “and—what is more important to us—that the King might see you.” Slowly, the King’s wife went back to her seat before the mirror, and sat there fingering and turning the jewelled rouge-pots in a deep study. “Deliver me your opinion of this, Teboen?” she said, at last, to the big raw-boned British woman who was her nurse and also the female majordomo of her household. Teboen was enough mistress of the magic art to give anything like an omen its due weight,—and perhaps she was also human enough to be weary of a fortnight’s imprisonment with a porcupine. After becoming deliberation, she replied that she thought rather favorably of the plan, that certainly it could do no harm, since a visit to the booths had never been forbidden to them, while it would be almost as sure to do good if the King could be reminded of how beautiful a woman he was neglecting. Elfgiva’s laughter was like returning sunshine. “How! You say so? Then will we make ready without delay! Leonorine, come hither and finish clothing me,—Dearwyn would shake too much. Lay aside your whimpering, child; the scourging is forgiven you. Tata, I could find it in my mind to scold you for not thinking of this before. You must mouth the order for the horses, though,” she added as an afterthought. “I should expect it would be told me that I am a prisoner, whereat I should weep for rage.”