In all probability his nimble departure saved him from a scolding for, as she tripped after him down the corridor, a little frown was forming between Randalin’s brows. “I think it is not well-mannered of the fellow to say ‘the King’s Marshal’ as though my lord were Canute’s thane,” she was reflecting, “and I shall put an end to it. Whatever others say, one never needs to tell me that Sebert is not suffering in his service.” With this thought in her mind, she raised the moth-eaten tapestry and stood looking at him with a face full of generous indignation. Except for the noble’s embroidered belt and gold-hilted sword, his dress now differed in no way from that of the hundreds and hundreds of red-cloaked guards who were spread over the country like sparks after a conflagration. As he turned at the end of the beat he was pacing and came slowly toward her, she could see that in its gravity his face was as soldier-like as his clothes. Always she found it so when she came upon him unawares; and always, when she spoke to him—She held her breath as his eyes rose to her, and let it go with a little sigh of happiness as she saw gloom drop from him like a mask at the sight of her. “Randalin!” he cried joyously, and made a step toward her, then stopped to laugh in gay wonder. “Now no poet would call you ‘a weaver of peace’ as you stand there, for you look rather like an elf of battle. What is it, my raven?” Her lips smiled back at him, but a mist was over her eyes. “It is your King that I am angry with, lord. He is not worthy that a man like you should serve him.” Moving toward her again, he held himself a little straighter. “I serve not the King, dear heart,” he said gently, “but the State of England, in whose service the highest is none too good to bend.” She yielded him her hands but not her point. “That does not change the fact that it is his overbearingness which makes your path as though you trod on nettles,—for certainly I know it is so, though you will not say it!” Neither would he admit it now, but laughed lightly as he drew her to him. “Now may he not give me thorns who gives me also the sweetest rose in his king-dom? I tell you he is the kingliest king ever I had to deal with, and the chief I would soonest trust England to. Be no Danish rebel, shield-maiden, or as the King’s officer I will mulct your lips for every word of treason.” She showed no rebellion against his authority, at all events; and her hands remained in his clasp until of his own accord he opened his fingers with an exclamation. “Do you wear bracelets for rings, my fair, or what? _What_!” From the monstrous bauble in his palm, he raised his eyes to hers, and if she had seen their look she might have answered differently. But her gaze was still on the ring; and as she felt him start, that impish dimple peeped out of her cheek. “Is it not a handsome thing?” she said. “It looks to be a ring to belong to a giant.” “Is it—Rothgar’s?”