But even as Elfgiva was turning to despatch a page for news, the throng of
moving figures parted, and from it two horsemen emerged and rode toward them.
One was the mighty son of Lodbrok, clad in the scarlet mantle and gilded mail
of the King's guard. The other, who wore no armor at all, only feasting-
clothes of purple velvet, was the King himself.
The whole troop of butterfly pages rushed forward to take possession of the
horses; the little gentlewomen made a fluttering group behind their mistress;
and Elfgiva, laughing in sweetest mockery, swept back her rosy robes in a
lowly reverence.
"Hail, lord of half a kingdom but of the whole of my heart!" she greeted him.
Canute seemed to drink in her fairness like wine; his face was boyish in its
radiance as he leaped from his horse before her. "What! The first word a
gibe?" he cried, then caught her in his arms and stilled her silvery laughter
with his lips.
It was so charming a picture that Randalin smiled in sympathy, where she stood
a little way behind the young wife, awaiting the moment when the King should
have leisure to discover her. Not the faintest doubt of his friendliness was
in her mind. She was still smiling, when at last he raised his head and looked
at her over Elfgiva's shoulder.
Then alas, the smile died, murdered, on her lips. Turning, Canute beckoned to
the son of Lodbrok, who was enduring the scene with the same stolid
resignation which he displayed toward his chief's other follies.
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