"No, as God lives!" he answered swiftly. "It is not to Edmund alone that the
Gainer is loathful. Should he pass the King's sword, a hundred blades wait for
him, mine among them. Seek what he may seek, he shall not have peace of us.
When I guide a wolf to my sheep-fold, I will show you the way to Edmund's
camp. Take yourself out of reach if you would not be sped with arrows."
A jeering laugh was the only answer, but the tramping of hoofs suggested that
his advice was being taken.
When the sound had faded quite away, the Lord of Ivarsdale breathed out the
rest of his resentment in a hearty imprecation, and, turning, came on to his
patient. His voice was as gentle as a woman's as he dropped on his knee beside
the slim figure.
"What is your need, little fire-eater?"
A memory of her haunting terror stirred in the girl. Shrinking from him, she
made a desperate effort to push away his outstretched hand, threatening him in
a broken whisper.
"If you touch me--I will--kill you."
They were brave men, those Englishmen. The Etheling only smiled, and one of
his warriors chuckled. With a touch as gentle as it was strong, he put aside
her resisting hands and began swiftly to cut away the blood-stiffened hose.
Darkness closed around Randalin again, darkness shot with zigzag lightnings of
pain, and throbbing with pitiful moans.
Pages:
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93