already bent over the gallery's edge, and the
scene below had claimed her eye and ear to the exclusion of all else.

Whatever its shortcomings as a show-case, the balcony was excellently
adapted both for spectators and for eavesdroppers, its distance from the
floor being little more than twice a man's height, while the fire which
doled its light so stingily, lavished a glory of brightness on the spot
where the King's massive chair stood beside the chimney-piece. After
one petulant glance, even Elfgiva's pique gave way to a curiosity that
gradually drew her forward to the very edge of her seat and held her
there, the three maids crouching at her feet.

Encircled by a martial throng, so massed and indistinct that they made
a background like embroidered tapestry, three figures were the centre
of attention,--the figure of the young King in his raised chair, and
the forms of the Dane and the Angle who fronted each other before his
footstool. 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. The
first son o