enemy. If
there were many such as she in the world we might as well haul down our
sign, for we should not have a bed to lie on."

"'Tis said the Lord Hildebrand is the accuser," Glycerium observed.

"Yea," Lycabetta answered, "and sure of victory. I thought he would have
visited me last night."

"He husbands himself for the combat," Hypsipyle suggested.

Lycabetta tapped her woman in playful anger with her fan.

"You wrong him, minion," she said. Her eyes suddenly brightened, for she
saw Sigurd Olafson making his way towards her through the press. There
was a look of constraint in his blue eyes as he greeted her.

"Loveliest lady," he said, hesitatingly, "I have some unlovely news for
you."

Lycabetta raised her eyebrows in surprise. The salutation was
unexpected.

"What grief do you herald?" she questioned, with an air of unconcern.

Sigurd spoke with evident embarrassment.

"Lady, the King commands that you and all your women return to Naples
with the first fair wind."

For a moment the words shook Lycabetta and her eyes flashed anger. Then
instantly she recovered her composure. She knew that it would be useless
to appeal against any command of the King, the King who had not visited
her now for more than a month.

"Is it so?" she said. "Then be it so. Naples or Sicily, what does it
matter so long as there is sun to warm the blood?"

The blue eyes of Sigurd Olafson burned bright with passion.

"I will follow you to Naples," he said, in a low, eager voice.

Lycabetta's eyes answered his passion, Lycabetta's voice replied to his
desire.

"You will be very welcome, blue eyes," she promised. "But to-day at
least we may stay and see the show?"

"Surely," answered Sigurd. "Let me guide you to your places. They are of
the best." And he conducted her and her women to the tier where their
seats had been set apart.

XVIII

ORDEAL OF BATTLE

By this time the vast amphitheatre, that was capable of seating
twenty-four thousand people, if Syracuse had only had twenty-four
thousand people to offer it, had swallowed up the eager crowds, and the
arena lay bare, save for the little wooden platform with its scarlet
stain. There was a flourish of royal music. Cries of "The King! The
King!" ran from lip to lip; many soldiers marched across the arena from
the royal gardens, and in their midst, on an open litter, was carried
the likeness of the King, attended by a brilliant cloud of courtiers. As
it seemed