shell around her. Glad to hide her face for a moment, she seized the goblet
and drained it slowly to the last drop. If only she could remember just how
Fridtjof had borne himself! As she swallowed the last mouthful, a recollection
came to her of the thrall-women grumbling over Fridtjof's wine-stained tunics;
and she carefully drew her sleeve across her mouth as she set down the cup.

Leaning back in his seat, the King took frowning measure of his guest, from
the toe of her spurred riding-boot to the top of the green cap which she had
forgotten to remove. His mood seemed wavering between annoyance and amusement;
a word could decide the balance. With her last swallow he repeated his
challenge.

"Are you capable now of giving me any reason why I should not have you flogged
from the camp? Is it your opinion that because I choose to behave foolishly
before my friends, I am desirous to have tale-bearing boys listening?"

"Boys" again! Randalin's sinking spirit rallied at the assurance as her
fainting body had revived under the rich warmth of the mead.

She managed to stammer out, "I entreat you not to be angry, Lord King. It was
the fault of the man on guard that I came in as I did. And I did not
understand six of the words you spoke,--I beseech you to believe it."

That she had in truth been too frightened for intelligent eavesdropping, the
remaining pallor of her face made it easy to believe. The scales tipped ever
so little.

"Did you think you had fallen into a bear pit?" the King asked with a faint
smile, that sharpened swiftly to bitterness. "After all, it would matter
little what anyone told of me. Without doubt your kin have already taught you