“May the gallows take my body!” the King breathed. And he sat down upon a grassy hummock as suddenly as though a rock had been thrown at him that knocked the legs from under him. Nor did he get up immediately, but remained gazing at the string of bright beads which English camp-fires made along the opposite bluff, his face intent with pondering. Meanwhile the son of Lodbrok strode to and fro, declaiming wrathfully. “There is not an honest bone in the imp’s body,” he wound up. “It is certainly my belief that he was in league with the Englishman; and his freedom was the reward he got for drawing me off.” “Certainly you are a very shrewd man,” Canute murmured. But something in his voice did not stand firm; his foster-brother darted him a keen glance. His suspicions were well founded. Canute’s face was crimson with suppressed laughter; he was biting his lips frantically to hold back his mirth. The temper of the son of Lodbrok left him in one inarticulate snarl. Turning on his heel, with a whirlwind of flying cloak and a thunder of clashing weapons, he would have stalked away if the King had not made him the most peremptory of gestures. “No, wait! Wait, good brother! I will show you whether I offend you intentionally or not! It is—it is—the—the jest—” Again he became unintelligible. Rothgar stopped, but it was to glower over his folded arms. “Do you think I do not know as well as you that I behaved like a fool? What I dislike is that you cannot see as plainly that your ward is a troll. Because his womanish face has caught your fancy, you will neither blame him yourself nor allow others to make a fuss—” “That is where you are wrong,” the King interrupted, with as much gravity as he could command. “When Fridtjof Frodesson comes again into your presence, I give you leave to take whatever revenge you like. Lash him with your tongue or your belt, as you will; and I promise that I will not lift finger to hinder you from it.” “And not hold it against me?” Rothgar demanded incredulously. “And not hold it against you,” Canute agreed. Then he tilted his head back to laugh openly in the other’s face. “Will you wager a finger-ring against my knife that your mind will not change when my ward stands again before you?” The Jotun smiled grimly. “Is that the expectation you are stringing your bow with? It will fail you as surely as the hair of Hother’s wife failed him. The wager shall be as you have made it; and may I lack strength if I do not deal with him—” He paused, blinking like a startled owl, as his royal foster-brother leaped to his feet and fronted him with shouts of laughter. “You dolt, you!” Canute cried. “Do you not see it yet? Frode’s child is a woman!” Rothgar’s jaw dropped and his bulging eyes seemed in danger of following. “What!” he gasped; and then his voice rose to a roar. “And the Englishman is her lover?”