"Were I a Pagan
Dane, I would run my sword through him. But I am a Christian Englishman. Let
him lie. He will bleed his life out before morning."
"Come on, then," the chorus growled. "The Etheling is asking what hinders us."
--"Make haste!"--" The Etheling is here!"
While the warrior was turning, a new voice spoke.
"Canute's page?" it repeated after some unseen informant. "Is he dead?"
It was a young voice, and deep and soft, for all the note of quiet authority
ringing through it; something in its tone was agreeably different from the
harsh utterance of the first speaker. Randalin's eyes rose dreamily to find
the owner. He had ridden up behind the others on a prancing white horse. Above
the black hedge, the square strength of his shoulders and the graceful lines
of his helmed head were silhouetted sharply against the starry sky. Why had
they so familiar a look? Ah! the noble who had followed Edmund--
So far she got, and then all was blotted out in a flash of pain, as the man
nearest her put out a hand and touched her torn limb.
"Wriggling like a fish, lord," he answered the new-comer.
A sound on the soft turf told that the horseman had alighted. "The bantling is
of too good quality to leave," he said good-naturedly. "Catch my bridle,
Oswin. Where is he wounded?"
He made a quick step toward her, then paused as suddenly, his chin thrust out
in listening.
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