"What, crying still, foolish child?" said Lothaire. "Do you not know
that if they dare to cross us, my father will treat them as they deserve?
Bring supper, I say, and let me have a pasty of ortolans."

"There are none--they are not in season," said Richard.

"Do you mean to give me nothing I like? I tell you it shall be the worse
for you."

"There is a pullet roasting," began Richard.

"I tell you, I do not care for pullets--I will have ortolans."

"If I do not take order with that boy, my name is not Eric," muttered the
Baron.

"What must he not have made our poor child suffer!" returned Fru Astrida,
"but the little one moves my heart. How small and weakly he is, but it
is worth anything to see our little Duke so tender to him."

"He is too brave not to be gentle," said Osmond; and, indeed, the
high-spirited, impetuous boy was as soft and kind as a maiden, with that
feeble, timid child. He coaxed him to eat, consoled him, and, instead of
laughing at his fears, kept between him and the great bloodhound
Hardigras, and drove it off when it came too near.

"Take that dog away," said Lothaire, imperiously. No one moved to obey
him, and the dog, in seeking for scraps, again came towards him.

"Take it away," he repeated, and struck it with his foot. The dog
growled, and Richard started up in indignation.

"Prince Lothaire," he said, "I care not what else you do, but my dogs and
my people you shall not maltreat."

"I tell you I am Prince! I do what I will! Ha! who laughs there?" cried
the passionate boy, stamping on the floor.

"It is not so easy for French Princes to scourge free-born Normans here,"
said the rough voice of Walter the huntsman: "there is a reckoning for
the stripe my Lord Duke bore for me."

"Hush, hush, Walter," began Richard; but Lothaire had caught up a
footstool, and was aiming it at the huntsman, when his arm was caught.

Osmond, who knew him well enough to be prepared for such outbreaks, held
him fast by both hands, in spite of his passionate screams and struggles,
which were like those of one frantic.

Sir Eric, meanwhile, thundered forth in his Norman patois, "I would have
you to know, young Sir, Prince though you be, you are our prisoner, and
shall taste of a dungeon, and bread and water, unless you behave
yourself."

Either Lothaire did not hear, or did not believe, and fought more
furiously in Osmond's arms, but he had little chance with the stalwart
young warrior, and,