“Dauntlessness!” the old cniht snorted again. “It is the dauntlessness of the man in Father Ingulph’s story, who was so much wiser than his advisers that he must try to drive the sun a new way, till it came so nigh as it nighest may to setting the world afire.” So hot was his scorn that he was obliged to cool it in his ale, coming to the surface slightly mollified. “However, Lord Sebert, you have cast your colt’s-teeth, and I have no desire to tread upon the toes of your dignity. If I have been over-free, excuse it in your father’s old servant and comrade who has guarded and guided you since—since you have had teeth to cast.” The young man laughed good-humoredly as he straightened himself for action. “Too often has my dignity bent under your rod, Morcard, to hold itself very stiff against you now. Never fear; I will be an owl of discretion. Give you favorable dreams over your horns!” He picked up his cloak and was turning to depart, when one of the warriors flung up a hand. “Soft, my lord. Yonder comes Wikel making strange signs to you.” All heads but Randalin’s turned in the direction he was looking. She was still too lethargic for curiosity; and she found a kind of dreamy content in lying with her eyes upon the Etheling’s handsome face. Though its prevailing characteristic was the easy amiability of one who has known little of opposition or dislike, there was no lack of steel in the blue eyes or of iron in the square chin; now and then a spark betrayed them, thrilling pleasantly through her drowsiness. Presently, however, between her and the comely apparition there intervened the brawny figure of a yeoman-soldier. He said breathlessly, “Chief—before you go to the King—be it known to you that those horse-feet you heard—belong to the mounts of Edric of Mercia and his men—and he is with King Edmund now!” The three stolid old warriors got to their feet with curses. The Etheling bent forward to gaze incredulously into the man’s face. “Edric of Mercia? With the King? Why do you think so?” “I was a little way beyond the King’s fire, watching a fellow who was showing how he could jump over the flames, when I saw the Gainer ride past; and I followed him, as near as the guards would permit—near enough to see that the King received him—let him settle it with Saint Cuthbert!” There was a pause of utter stupefaction; then, from all within hearing, a clamorous outburst: “It is the Gainer’s luck again!”—“The messenger knew what he was saying!”—“No sharpness of wit can comprehend it!”—“It is the magic of his flattering tongue.”—“A hundred tongues had done no harm if Edmund—” The voices sank into a snarling undertone: “Ay, there it is!”—“Ethelred’s blood!”—“It is no more to be counted on than is water—” “What could have moved him to it?”