Ha'vama'l.
A moment, it was to Randalin, Frode's daughter, as if the heavens had let fall
a star at her feet. Then her wonder changed to exultation, as she realized
that it was not chance but because of her bidding that the man she loved stood
before her. Only because she had asked it, he had come through pitfalls and
death-traps, and now faced, alone, the gathered might of his foes. Glorying in
his deed, she stood shining sun-like upon him until the red cloaks of the
advancing warriors came between like scarlet clouds.
"Who are you? .... What is your errand? .... How came you here?" she heard
them demand. And, after a pause, in disbelieving chorus, "Rothgar Lodbroksson!
.... Does that sound likely? .... Where is he, then?" "You are trying to lie
out of something--" "You are an English spy! Seize him! Bind him!"
The scarlet cloaks drew together into a swaying mass; a dozen blades glittered
in the sun. With a gasp, she came out of her trance to catch at the royal
mantle.
"Lord King, you promised to give him safety!" The seriousness which had
darkened Canute's face at the intrusion vanished off it as breath-mist off a
mirror. "Is it only your Englishman?" he asked, between a laugh and a frown.
She grudged the time the words took. "Yes, yes! Pray be as quick as you can!"
He did not seem bitten by her haste, but he took a step forward, clanging his
gold-bound scabbard against the stone well-curbing to make himself heard.
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