would you get protection, and your father's castle would gain a strong arm to
fight for it. I would wed you to my foster-brother, Rothgar Lodbroksson, and
thus bring good to both of-- Are you finding fault with that also?"

But the lad stood before him like a stone. If a faint cry had come from him,
it was not repeated; and there was nothing offensive about a hidden face and
shaking limbs.

The King continued more gently: "But since you were so simple as to be born a
boy, such good luck is not to be expected. It is the best that I can do to
offer you to become my ward and follow me as my page, until the sword's game
has decided between me and Edmund of England. But I do not know where your
ambition is if that does not content you. There are lads in Denmark who would
give their tongues for the chance. What say you, Fridtjof the Bold?"

For a time it looked as if "Fridtjof the Bold" did not know what to say. He
stood without raising his hanging head or moving a muscle. Silence filled the
tent, while from outside leaked in the noise of the revel. Then, through that
noise or above it, there became audible the notes of far-away horns. Edric
Jarl was fulfilling his pledge. Cheers answered the blast. An exclamation
broke from the King's lips, and he leaped up. At that moment, "Fridtjof the
Bold" fell at his feet with clasped hands and supplicating eyes.

"Let me go, Lord King," he besought passionately. "Let me go, and I will ask
nothing further of you. I will never trouble you again. Let me go!--only let
me go!"

Canute of Denmark is not to be blamed that he stamped with exhausted patience.

"Go into the hands of the Trolls!" he swore. And again, "In the Fiend's name!"