"Yonder Edmund rides now!" he gasped. "You can tell him by his size-- Yonder!
Now he is tearing off his helmet--" Nor was he mistaken; within spear-throw
the mighty frame of the Ironside towered above his struggling guard. As he
bared his head, they could even distinguish his face with its large elegantly-
formed features and Ethelred's prominent chin. Brandishing his sword, shouting
words of reassurance, exposing his person without a thought of the darts aimed
at him, he was making a heroic effort to check the rush of his panic-stricken
host. There was no question both that he was alive and that he knew who was
belying him; even as they looked he hurled his spear, with a cry of rage, at
the form of Edric Jarl.
Missing the Mercian, it struck down a man at his side; and high above the
voice of the ill-fated King rose the shrill alarms of the traitor's heralds.
"Fly, ye men of Dorsetshire and Devon! Fly and save yourselves! Here is your
Edmund's head!"
Randalin stared about her, doubting her senses. But light had begun to dawn on
Canute. He wheeled sharply, as Thorkel pushed his horse to their sides.
"Whose head was that?" he demanded.
Thorkel's face was a lineless mask. "I believe his name was Osmaer," he
answered without emotion.
"It was unheard-of good fortune that he should be so like Edmund in looks."
The young King's face was suffused with bitterness.
Pages:
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87