Bending forward, his beautiful face quite radiant with his pleasure, the
curly-headed page pulled a golden ring from his pouch and tossed it into the
harper's lap.
As he caught the largess, the man's mouth broadened. "I thank you for your
good-will, fair stripling," he returned. "May you find as true a love when
your time comes to go a-wooing."
The maids tittered, while the men guffawed, and a richer glow came into the
cheeks of Fridtjof the page. Suddenly his iris-blue eyes were daringly
a-sparkle.
"The spirits will have forgot your wish before that time comes," he laughed,
"for I vow that I will raise a beard or ever I woo a maiden."
Above the mirth that followed rose the voice of the brawniest of the henchmen,
passing his judgment on the ballad. "Now that is my own desire of songs," he
declared. "That was worth possessing,--the love of that lass. A sweetheart who
will cleave to your side when your fortune is most severe, and despise every
good because she has not you also, she is the filly to yoke with. Drink to the
wood maiden, comrades, bare feet and wild ways and all!" Swinging up his horn,
he drained off the toast at a draught. "Give us a mistress like that, my
lord," he cried merrily, "and we will hold Ivarsdale for her though all of
Edmund's men batter at the doors."
Laughing, they all looked up where the young master leaned in his chair,
watching the revels with a smile of idle good-humor.
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