“It is not likely that swords will have any part in that matter, Lord Marshal. There is another task in store for you than to fight Normans,—and it may be that you will think it beneath your rank, for instead of the State, it concerns me and my life, which someone has tried to take. Yet I expect you will see that my death would be little gainful to England.” A second curt gesture cut short Sebert’s rather embarrassed protest. “Here are no fine words needed. Listen to the manner in which the deed was committed. Shortly before the end of the winter, it happened that Ulf Jarl saw the cook’s scullion pour something into a broth that was intended for me to eat. Suspecting evil, he forced the fellow instead to swallow it, and the result was that, that night, the boy died.” The Etheling exclaimed in horror: “My lord! know you whence he got it?” “You prove a good guesser to know that it was not his crime,” the King said dryly. “A little while ago, I found out that he got it from the British woman who is nurse to Elfgiva of Northampton.” To this, the new Marshal volunteered no answer whatever, but drew his breath in sharply as though he found himself in deep water; and the King spoke on. “I did not suspect the Lady of Northampton of having evil designs toward me, because—because she is more prosperous in every respect while I am alive; and now that belief is proved true, for I am told for certain that, the day before the British woman gave the boy the liquid, a Danishman gave the British woman an herb to make a drink of.” He paused, and his voice became slower and much harder, as though he were curbing his feelings with iron. “Since you have heard the Norman rumor,” he said, “it is likely that you have heard also of the discontent among the Danes, who dislike my judgments; but in case you have not, I will tell you that an abundance of them have betaken themselves to a place in the Middlesex forest where they live outlaws,—and their leader is Rothgar Lodbroksson.” To motion back a man who was approaching him with a paper, he turned away for a moment; and Sebert was glad of the excuse to avoid meeting his glance. Not until now had he understood what the judgment in his favor had cost the judge, and his heart was suddenly athrob with many emotions. “In no way is it strange that I am hateful to him,” he murmured. “But by Saint Mary, _he_ is of the sort that is worth enduring from!” He inclined his head in devoted attention as the King turned back, lowering his tone to exclude all but the man before him. “Even less than I believe it of Elfgiva of Northampton, do I believe it of Rothgar Lodbroksson, that he would seek my life. But often that happens which one least expects, and it is time that I use forethought for myself. Now I know of no man in the world who is better able to help my case than you.”