“In the Troll’s name, get in to the Chief, and let nothing hinder you!” he growled. “From your snail’s pace I got the idea that you had come a-begging. Get in, and set your tongue wagging as speedily as you can! Why do you draw back? I tell you to make haste!” Before she could so much as catch her breath, he had raised the tent-flap, pushed her bodily through the entrance, and dropped the linen door behind her. CHAPTER IV. When Royal Blood Is Young Blood The mind only knows What lies near the heart; That alone is conscious of our affections. No disease is worse To a sensible man Than not to be content with himself. Hávamál. Three richly dressed warriors, clinking golden goblets across a table,—so much Randalin caught in her first glance. On the spot where the sentinel had released her she stopped, stock-still, and with eyes bent on the ground tremblingly awaited the royal attention. Clink-clank,—the golden goblet lips continued their noisy kissing. The hum of the low-toned voices droned on without interruption. Minute after minute dragged by. She ventured to shift her weight and steal an upward glance. Her first thought was that a king’s tent was very like a trader’s booth. Spears and banners and gold-bossed shields decorated the walls, while the reed-strewn ground was littered with furs and armor, with jewelled altar-cloths and embroidered palls and wonder-ful gold-laced garments. The rude temporary benches were spread with splendid covers of purple and green, upon which silver lilies and gold-eyed peacocks had been wrought with exquisite skill. And the rough-hewn table bore such treasures as plunderers dream of when their sleeping-bags are lying the most comfortably,—ivory relique caskets, out of which the sacred bones had been unceremoniously turned, gemmed chalices from earls’ feasting-halls, and amber chains and silver mirrors and strings of pearls from their ladies’ bowers. Randalin’s gaze lingered, dazzled, then slowly rose to examine the master of all this wealth.