And now
women came running across the fields from the farmhouses, waving their aprons.
More children raced behind them; and then a dozen old men, limping and
hobbling on crutches and canes. A moment, and they were all over the foot-
bridge and up the slope; and the sweet clamor of greetings was added to the
tumult. Now it was a crowd of little brothers throwing themselves upon a big
one; now a blooming lass flinging her arms around her sweetheart's neck; and
again, a farmer's little daughter leaping joyously into her father's embrace.
In the midst of it, the Lord of Ivarsdale looked around and found that
Fridtjof the page was crying as though his heart would break.
"How! Tears, my Beowulf!" he said in amazement.
She was far beyond words, the girl in the page's dress; she could only bury
her face deeper in her slender hands and try to control the sobs that shook
her from head to foot.
But it was not long before the young man's kind-ness divined the source of her
pain. He spoke a quick word to those behind, and waving aside those before,
touched spur to the white horse. In a moment, the good steed had borne them
out of the crowd and down the slope, followed only by the old cnihts and the
dozen armed retainers.
As the hoofs rang hollow on the little bridge that spanned the stream, the
Etheling spoke again in his voice of careless gentleness.
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