ect upon your
woman? Or do you think you planted love in the breasts of the dead
scullions? Had you seen their writhings I think you would have called it
by another name."

He was standing over her now, and she was cowering before him, her
shaking hands rising as though to ward off his eyes. "I meant no harm,"
she was wailing with stiff lips. "The scroll said not a word that it was
hurtful. Do not kill me. I meant no--" The word ended in an inarticulate
sound and she swayed backward.

It was Randalin who caught and eased her down upon the rustic chair, and
Randalin who turned upon the Tall One. "Saw I never a meaner man!" she
cried. "Certainly I think Loke was less wolf-minded than you. You know
very well that if Teboen had thought it would become a cause of harm to
her, she would have refused to swallow it. I will go to the King myself
and tell him how despisable you are." She stamped her foot at the united
ministry of the Kingdom as she turned her back upon its representatives
to speak reassuringly to her mistress.

Her lover did not blame her that her flashing eyes seemed to include
him among the objects of their wrath. He said fiercely to the Jarl, "For
God's sake, tell her that no one suspects her of seeking his life, and
give her his true message, or I will go and hang myself for loathing."

"Tell her yourself!" the old Dane snapped. "It is seen that you are as
rabbit-hearted as the boy who makes her such an offer. Were I in his
place, I would have them all drowned for a litter of wauling kittens."
He looked very much indeed like a wolf in a sheepfold as he stamped
to and fro, grinding his spurred heels into the patches of clover and
growling in his beard.

The young soldier had been known to ride into battle with a happier
face, but the sudden gritting of his teeth implied that he would do
anything to get the matter over with; and having braved the outburst of
hysterics that redoubled at his approach, he managed to slip a soothing
word into the lull.

"Lady, the King sends you none but good greetings. It would make you
feel better if you would listen to them."

"Then he--he does not blame me for this?" Elfgiva quavered at last.

"He does not blame you," the Marshal hastened to reassure her. "And in
token thereof he sends you your heart's desire."

Plainly, the elves had endowed their "gift" with a wit to match her
soul. Her beautiful eyes were simple as an injured child's as she raised
them to his, "ca