gh made for them to pass. In a few moments
Richard had mounted the steps and stood in the great hall.

In the chair of state, at the upper end of the room, sat a small spare
man, of about eight or nine-and-twenty, pale, and of a light complexion,
with a rich dress of blue and gold. Sir Eric and several other persons
stood respectfully round him, and he was conversing with the Archbishop,
who, as well as Sir Eric, cast several anxious glances at the little Duke
as he advanced up the hall. He came up to the King, put his knee to the
ground, and was just beginning, "Louis, King of France, I--" when he
found himself suddenly lifted from the ground in the King's arms, and
kissed on both cheeks. Then setting him on his knee, the King exclaimed,
"And is this the son of my brave and noble friend, Duke William? Ah! I
should have known it from his likeness. Let me embrace you again, dear
child, for your father's sake."

Richard was rather overwhelmed, but he thought the King very kind,
especially when Louis began to admire his height and free-spirited
bearing, and to lament that his own sons, Lothaire and Carloman, were so
much smaller and more backward. He caressed Richard again and again,
praised every word he said--Fru Astrida was nothing to him; and Richard
began to say to himself how strange and unkind it was of Bernard de
Harcourt to like to find fault with him, when, on the contrary, he
deserved all this praise from the King himself.

[Picture: Louis of France and the Little Duke]

CHAPTER V

Duke Richard of Normandy slept in the room which had been his father's;
Alberic de Montemar, as his page, slept at his feet, and Osmond de
Centeville had a bed on the floor, across the door, where he lay with his
sword close at hand, as his young Lord's guard and protector.

All had been asleep for some little time, when Osmond was startled by a
slight movement of the door, which could not be pushed open without
awakening him. In an instant he had grasped his sword, while he pressed
his shoulder to the door to keep it closed; but it was his father's voice
that answered him with a few whispered words in the Norse tongue, "It is
I, open." He made way instantly, and old Sir Eric entered, treading
cautiously with bare feet, and sat down on the bed motioning him to do
the same, so that they might be able to speak lower. "Right, Osmond," he
said. "It is well to be on the alert, for peril enough is arou