distance. "By Thor, I had forgotten! There have not been so many to me on that
errand... Though I take it well that you should trust me... Yes, certainly; I
will be king-like once. Stand here before me, while I question you."

She caught her breath rather sharply as she stepped forward. Would she be able
to tell a straight story? She stood with fingers interlacing nervously.

"Tell me first how you are called?"

"I am called Fridtjof Frodesson."

"Frode of Avalcomb! Now I know where I have heard that name; my father spoke
it often, and always with great respect. It will go hard with me if I must
return an unfavorable answer to his son. Tell me how his death was brought
about."

Randalin thrust the sobs back from her throat; the tears back from her eyes.
Only a clear head could deliver her out of the snare. She began slowly:
"Leofwinesson set upon him last night, at the gate of the castle, and slew
him. The Englishman had long been covetous of Avalcomb, so that even his fear
of you was not so great as his greed. He had five-and-fifty men, and my father
but twelve--besides me; he--we--had just come in from hunting. Then he rode
over my father's body into the castle." She stopped uncertainly to glance at
her listener.

The brightness of his eyes startled her, though they were not turned in her
direction. They were blazing down into the cup that he was turning and
pinching between his fingers. He said, half as though to himself: "Vermin!
What would I give if I might take them in my teeth and shake them like the
filth-fed rats they are! Ten hundred such do not reach the value of one finger