He had finished his meal, if meal it could be called, and was making some attempt at a toilet. While one serf knelt beside him, scrubbing at his muddy riding-boots with a wisp of wet grass, another held a gilt shield up for a mirror, and before this the Etheling was carefully parting his shining hair. His captive’s eyes were not the only ones upon him, and the bright metal showed that he was laughing a little at the comments his performance drew forth from the three old cnihts lounging near him. “Tending by five hairs to the sword-side, Lord Sebert,” one of them was offering quizzical criticism over his drinking-horn. “The Etheling must needs have extraordinary respect for the endurance of Harald Fairhair, for it is said that to accomplish a vow he went three years without barbering himself,” another said gravely. While a third became slyly reminiscent, as he chewed his venison. “These are soft days, comrades. The last time I followed the old chief, of honored memory, we held our war-council standing knee-deep in a fen. We had neither eaten nor drunk for two days, and three days’ blood was on our hands.” The young chief took it all with careless good-humor. “When you leave off eating, in memory of that brave time, I will leave off washing,” he returned. “Would you have me go into a royal council looking as though birds had nested in my hair?” With a parting scrutiny of his smooth locks, he motioned the shield-bearer aside and turned back to them his comely face, rosy from his recent ablutions and alight with a momentary enthusiasm. “I tell you, nothing but a warrior’s life becomes ethel-born men,” he said as he straightened himself with a gallant gesture. “Nor sluggishness nor junketings, but days under fire and nights among the Wise Men of the council; that, in truth, becomes their station. By Saint Mary, I feel that I have never lived before! One week at the heels of Edmund Ironside is worth a lifetime under the banner of any other king.” A pause met his warmth somewhat coldly; and the warrior who broke the silence lowered his voice to do it. “Keep in mind, lord, that it is no more than a week that you have been at his heels,” he said. “Likewise bear in mind whose son he is,” the man with the drinking-horn added grimly. He was a stout white-bearded old cniht with an obstinate old face that looked something like a ruddy apple in a snow-bank. Flushing, the young noble ceased examining his sword-edge to meet the eyes bent upon him.