She even bent her lips into a little smile so that he should not be sorry for
her and stay to tell her so. She did not know that her cheeks were as white as
her kerchief, that her eyes were dark wells of unshed tears. She knew only
that at last he was bowing, he was turning, in a moment more he would be
gone -
But just short of that point he stopped, and all motion around her appeared to
stop, as a noise down the corridor blotted out every sound in the garden,--the
noise of a great body of people rousing the echoes with jubilant shouting.
"The King! The King!" could be heard again and again, and after it a burst of
deafening cheers that drowned the rest.
Elfgiva dropped the gilded quoits to wring her hands. "Is it the English, my
lord?" she implored of Eric of Norway. "Is it the English attacking us? Shall
we be killed?"
"Think you that Danes cheer like that when they are expecting death?" the
Norseman reassured her with a hearty laugh. "It is good news,--great news
since the whole mob has thought it safe to bring it. Hark! Can you hear what
it is that they add after the King's name?"
Listening, everyone stood motionless as the babel came nearer with a swiftness
which spoke much for the speed of the shouters. Only Randalin's little red
shoe began to tap the earth impatiently. What did it matter what they said?
"Hail to Canute of Denmark!" "Hail to the King of the Danes and--" Again
cheers drowned the rest.
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