While one set of
serfs bore away the remnants of roast and loaf and sweetmeat, another carried
around the brimming horns; and to the sound of cheers and hand-clapping, the
gleeman moved forward toward the harp that awaited him by the fireside.
Where the glow lay rosiest, the young lord sat in the great raised chair,
jesting with his Danish page who knelt on the step at his side. Now the boy's
answering provoked him to laughter, and he put out a hand and tousled the
thick curls in his favorite caress. One of the tresses caught in his jewelled
ring; and as he bent to unfasten it, he stared at the wavy mass in lazy
surprise. It was as soft and rich as the breast of a blackbird, and the fire
had laid over it a sheen of rainbow lights.
"Never did I think there could be any black hair so alluring," he said
involuntarily.
He could not see how the face under the clark veil grew suddenly as bright as
though the sun had risen in it. And the lad said, rather breathlessly, "I
wonder at your words, lord. You know that such hair is the curse of black
elves."
Leaning back in his chair, the Etheling shook his head in whimsical obstinacy.
"Not so, not so," he persisted. "It has to it more lustre than has yellow. My
lady-love shall have just such locks."
He had a glimpse like the flash of a bluebird's wing in the sun, as the page
glanced up at him, and the sight of a face grown suddenly rose-red.
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