to call me thrall-bred and witless. Little more can be said."

That from the warrior whose foot was already planted on the neck of England!
In her surprise, Randalin's eyes met his squarely. "By no means, King Canute;
my father called you the highest-minded man in the world."

The young leader flushed scarlet, flushed till he felt the burning, and
averted his face to hide it. He said in a low voice, "Many things have been
told of me that I count for naught, but this--this has not been said of me
before. Tell me his name."

"He was called Frode, the Dane of Avalcomb." The red mouth trembled a little.
"He is dead now. He was slain last night, by Norman Leofwinesson, who is Edric
Jarl's thane."

As both horseman and sentinel had started at that name, so now the King
straightened into alertness, forgetting everything else.

"Leofwinesson? What know you of him or his Jarl? Where are they? When saw you
them?"

"Last night; when they lay drunk in my father's castle at Avalcomb, after--"

"Avalcomb? Near St. Alban's? The swine!" The monarch was a soldier now,
shooting his questions like arrows. "After I bade them at Gillingham come
straight to me! How many were they? Where is the Jarl?"

"He was not with them. It was Norman of Baddeby who led, and he had no more
than five-and-fifty men. It was spoken among them that they would join you at
sunset to-day--"