His grin vanishing, the man leaned forward alertly. "Is it war news? Of Edric
Jarl's men?"

Before her tongue could move, Randalin's surprised face had answered. The
warrior smote his thigh resoundingly.

"You will be able to tell us tidings we wish to know. Since the fight this
morning we have been allowed to do no more than growl at the English dogs
across the plain, because it was held unadvisable to make an onset until the
Jarl's men should increase our strength. It is to be hoped they are not far
behind?"

"You make a mistake," Randalin began hesitatingly. "My news does not concern
the doings of Edric Jarl, but the actions of his man Norman--"

A blow across her lips silenced her.

"Hold your tongue until you come in to the Chief," the man admonished her,
with good-humored severity. "Have you not learned that babbling turns to ill,
you sprouting twig? And waste no more time upon the road, either. Yonder is
your shortest way, up that lane between the barley. When you come to a burned
barn, do you turn to the left and ride straight toward the woods; it should
happen that an old beech stock stands where you come out. Take then the path
that winds up-hill, and it will bring you to the war booths before you can
open your foolish mouth thrice. Trolls! what a cub to send a message by! But
get along, now; you will suffer from their temper if they think it likely that
you have kept them waiting." He gave the horse a stinging slap upon the flank,
that sent him forward like a shaft from a bow.