"I can say soothly that you will not have to bear it much longer, Lord Dale,"
he reassured. "My own eyes saw that--" He ended in a howl as a half-gnawed
sheep-bone from the warrior's hand struck him with a force that knocked him
sprawling among the ashes.
"Do not trouble yourself to answer until you are questioned," the Scar-Cheek
recommended briefly. And a round of laughter followed the poor scapegoat as he
picked himself up, groaning, and crept away into the shadow. In the
restlessness of their inactivity, and this swift breaking into passages of
growling and tooth-play whenever, in their narrow confines, they chanced to
jostle each other, they were like nothing so much as a pack of caged wolves.
Into the den, a few minutes later, the daughter of Frode came on her difficult
mission. Her face was so ghastly that the man who first caught sight of it did
not recognize her, and snatched up his weapon as against an enemy. It was the
Scar-Cheek who offered the first welcome in a jovial shout. "The hawk escaped
from the cage! Well done, champion! Did you batter a way out with your mighty
fists? Did you get fretful and slay the Englishman? Leave off your bashfulness
and tell us your deeds of valor!" A score of hands were stretched forth to
draw the boy into the circle; a score of horns were held out for his
refreshment.
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