“The boy from Avalcomb! Certainly these Danes are as hard to kill as cats! I would have sworn to it that I had separated his life from his body not eight-and-forty hours ago.” A gleam of eagerness came into his face, and he bent over her again. “You shall serve my purpose by your obstinacy,” he said under his breath. “You shall tell me where your sister is. You know, for you escaped together. When I was restored to my senses, I found you both gone. Tell me where she lies hidden, and it may be that I will grant to you a longer life.” Her stiff lips could not have spoken an answer had her paralyzed brain been able to frame one. She could only gaze back at him in helpless waiting. A second time he was bending toward her, when something stopped him midway so that he straightened and drew back with a bow. It came to her suddenly that they were all bowing, and that the hubbub had died in mid-air. Through the hush, a quiet voice spoke. “You are eager in rising, my lords,” it said. From the shelter, half cave, half bower, which had been contrived amid the bushes, a warrior of mighty frame had emerged and stood examining the scene. Though with soldierly hardiness he had taken his rest in his war-harness, he was unhelmed, and the light that revealed the protruding chin had no need to pick out the jewelled diadem to mark him as Edmund Ironside. The irregularity was very slight—not large enough to give him a combative look or to mar the fine proportions of his face, but it did unquestionably add to his stately bearing an expression of complacency that was unforgettable. He repeated his inquiry: “What is the amusement, my thanes? From the clamor which awakened me, I had some notion of an attack.” Norman of Baddeby bent in a second reverence. “Your expectations are to this degree fulfilled, my royal lord,” he made answer. “Behold the enemy!” Stooping, he raised the red-cloaked figure by its collar and held it up in the firelight. As a murmur of laughter went around, he lowered it again and spoke more gravely. “A hand needs not be large to get a hilt under its gripe, however. The young wolf is of northern breed,—how he penetrated to the heart of an English camp, I cannot tell,—and there grows in his spirit a bloodthirsty disposition. He seeks my life because in a skirmish, a few days gone by, I had the good luck to kill his father. If it—”