Something in the touch of her soft body, the caress of her satin hands, was
indefinably comforting. Randalin's arms closed about her and pressed her
close, while the little gentlewoman chided her gayly.
"What is the matter with you that you are so silent as to your tongue, when
you must needs be shouting in your heart? You are as bad as the King, who
stands looking from one to another and speaks not a word. Does your coldness
arise from dignity? Then let me lose all the state I have and be held for a
farmer's lass, for I am going to stand up here where I can see everything."
Disengaging herself gently, she climbed upon the bench as she chattered. "The
messenger had a leather bag around his neck which I think likely contains
Edmund's crown and--Ah, Tata, look l look! Thorkel is holding it up!"
As cries of savage rejoicing mingled with the uproar, Randalin found herself
dragged up, whether she would or no, until she stood beside her companion,
gazing over the heads of the shouting throng.
Yes, it was Edmund's crown. Again, a picture of the English camp-fire rose
before her, and she shivered as she recognized the graceful pearled points she
had last seen upon the Ironside's stately head. Now Thorkel was setting them
above the Danish circlet on Canute's shining locks, while the shouts merged
into a roar of acclamation.
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