bench under one
of the old oaks, she sank down upon it and leaned her head against the
tree trunk and waited.

Chapter XXIII. A Blood-stained Crown

He is happy
Who in himself possesses
Fame and wit while living;
For bad counsels
Have oft been received
From another's breast.
Ha'vama'l.

"Tata!" That was the pet name which Elfgiva had given to her Danish
attendant because it signified lively one. "Tata! I have looked
everywhere for you!" The pat of light feet, a swish of silken skirts,
and Dearwyn had thrown herself upon the bench under the oak tree, her
little dimpled face radiant. "What are you doing here in this corner
where you can see nothing? How! Are you not overcome with delight? Only
think that Elfgiva will be a queen and we shall all go to London!" As
the only adequate means of expression, she threw her arms around her
friend in a rapturous embrace.

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. Like blowing
flowers, the women bent before him, and the naked swords of his nobles
made a glittering arch above him.

"But why does he look so strange?" Randalin said suddenly.

And Dearwyn laid a