A gesture of his hand imposed a sudden silence, through which
the sound became distinct to all ears,--a trampling and crashing in the brush
beyond the moonlit open. As they wheeled to face it, a shout came from that
direction.
"What ho! Does the Lord of Ivarsdale go there?"
He whom they had called the Etheling drew himself up alertly. "I make no
answer to hedge-creepers," he said. "Come out where you can be seen."
The voice took on a mocking edge. "There is no gainsaying that I feel safer
here. I am the messenger of Edric of Mercia."
Only a warning sign from the Lord of Ivarsdale restrained an angry chorus. He
said with slow contempt, "I grant that it is well fitting the Gainer's deeds
that his men should flinch from the light--"
"Misgreet me not," the mocking voice interrupted. "Before cockcrow we shall be
sworn brothers. I bear a message to King Edmund. And I want you to further me
on my way by telling which direction will fetch me to his camp."
Derisive laughter went up from the band of King's men. Their leader snapped
his fingers. "That for your slippery devices! Is the Gainer so ill-advised as
to imagine that he is dealing with a second Ethelred?"
"I tell you to keep in mind," the voice retorted, "that before the cock crows
we shall be sworn brothers."
The Etheling's anger leaped out like a flame; even in the starlight it could
be seen how his face crimsoned.
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