" And
at last, "By Saint Swithin, lad, I think they have more sense than we, that
linger a half-hour's ride from food with a noonday sun standing in the sky! It
is borne in upon me that I am starving."
Backing his horse out of the brush, he was putting him about in great haste,
when the boy leaped in his stirrups and clapped his hands.
"Lord, we need not be a half-hour from food! Yonder, across the stubble, is a
farmhouse. If you would consent that I might use your name, then would I ride
thither and get their best, and serve it to you here in the elves' own
feast-hall."
The answer was a slap on the green shoulders that nearly tumbled their owner
from the saddle. "Now, I was right to call you elf, for you have more than
human cleverness!" the Etheling cried gayly. "Do so, by all means, dear lad;
and I promise in return that I will tell every puffed-up dolt at home that you
are the blithest comrade who ever fitted himself to man's moods. There, if
that contents you, give wings to your heels!"
Chapter XIII
When Might Made Right
Now may we understand
That men's wisdom
And their devices
And their councils
Are like naught
'Gainst God's resolve.
Saxon Chronicle.
What difference that, somewhere beyond the hills, men were fighting and
castles were burning? At Ivarsdale in the shelter and cheer of the lord's
great hall, the feast of the barley beer was at its height.
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