Shielded
from the heat by his palm, Canute's face was in the shadow, and the giant
shape of the son of Lodbrok was a blot against the flames, but the glare lay
strong on Sebert of Ivarsdale, revealing a picture that caused one spectator
to catch her breath in a sob. Equally aloof from English thane and Danish
noble, the Etheling in the palace of his native king stood a stranger and
alone, while his swordless sheath showed him to be also a prisoner. He bore
himself proudly, one of his blood could scarcely have done otherwise, but his
fine face was white with misery, and despair darkened his eyes as they stared
unseeingly before him.
As well as though he had put his thoughts into words, the girl who loved him
knew that his mind was back in the peaceful manor between the hills,
foreseeing its desecration by barbarian hands, foretasting the ruin of those
who looked to him for protection. From the twilight of the balcony, she
stretched out her arms to him in a passion of yearning pity, and all of
selfishness that had been in her grief faded from it utterly, as her heart
sent forth a second prayer.
"Oh, Thou God, forget what I asked for myself! Think only of helping him, of
comforting him, and I will love Thee as though Thou hadst done it to me. Help
him! Help him!"
Answering a question from the King, Rothgar began to speak, his heavy voice
seeming to fill all the space from floor to ceiling: "By all the laws of war,
King Canute, the Odal of Ivarsdale should come to me.
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