“A man’s voice!” The girl stared at him. “A _man_’s voice?” Then, like lungfuls of fresh air, it entered into her that she was not really the naked fledgeling she felt herself. She was in the toils, surely, but there was a shell around her. Glad to hide her face for a moment, she seized the goblet and drained it slowly to the last drop. If only she could remember just how Fridtjof had borne himself! As she swallowed the last mouthful, a recollection came to her of the thrall-women grumbling over Fridtjof’s wine-stained tunics; and she carefully drew her sleeve across her mouth as she set down the cup. Leaning back in his seat, the King took frowning measure of his guest, from the toe of her spurred riding-boot to the top of the green cap which she had forgotten to remove. His mood seemed wavering between annoyance and amusement; a word could decide the balance. With her last swallow he repeated his challenge. “Are you capable now of giving me any reason why I should not have you flogged from the camp? Is it your opinion that because I choose to behave foolishly before my friends, I am desirous to have tale-bearing boys listening?” “Boys” again! Randalin’s sinking spirit rallied at the assurance as her fainting body had revived under the rich warmth of the mead. She managed to stammer out, “I entreat you not to be angry, Lord King. It was the fault of the man on guard that I came in as I did. And I did not understand six of the words you spoke,—I beseech you to believe it.” That she had in truth been too frightened for intelligent eavesdropping, the remaining pallor of her face made it easy to believe. The scales tipped ever so little. “Did you think you had fallen into a bear pit?” the King asked with a faint smile, that sharpened swiftly to bitterness. “After all, it would matter little what anyone told of me. Without doubt your kin have already taught you to call me thrall-bred and witless. Little more can be said.” That from the warrior whose foot was already planted on the neck of England! In her surprise, Randalin’s eyes met his squarely. “By no means, King Canute; my father called you the highest-minded man in the world.” The young leader flushed scarlet, flushed till he felt the burning, and averted his face to hide it. He said in a low voice, “Many things have been told of me that I count for naught, but this—this has not been said of me before. Tell me his name.” “He was called Frode, the Dane of Avalcomb.” The red mouth trembled a little. “He is dead now. He was slain last night, by Norman Leofwinesson, who is Edric Jarl’s thane.” As both horseman and sentinel had started at that name, so now the King straightened into alertness, forgetting everything else. “Leofwinesson? What know you of him or his Jarl? Where are they? When saw you them?” “Last night; when they lay drunk in my father’s castle at Avalcomb, after—”