“I must confess it,” he said. “Edgar had heard speak of this lovely Devon rose; and, toying, only half-inclined, with a thought of matrimony, sent me, on some feigned mission, to discover if the lady’s beauty really matched her nobility—in which case——”
“Yes, Athelwold?”
He held her convulsively. “O, forgive me, Elfrida, that I made thee Queen of love, not England! Thy wealth, thy name, I told him, were the charms that gilded servile eyes—enough, perhaps, for such as I, but for him, lacking the first and best of recommendations. And he believed me, and yielded thee to me. And now, and now”—he held her from him, his chest heaving, his voice breaking—“my sin hath found me out—some one hath betrayed me—and he is coming in person to put my report to the proof. Feigning to prepare for his visit, I fled but in time to forestall him by a few hours. Ah, love! all is lost unless thou lovest me.”
She answered quite softly: “What am I to do, Athelwold?”
“Do, be, anything but Elfrida. Dress slovenly, speak rudely, soil and discredit thine own perfection.”
“Substitute another for thy lady.”
They both started, and fell apart. The dwarf, forgotten by the one, unnoticed by the other, had risen from his stool. The Thane’s hand whipped furiously to his sword-hilt.
“Nay,” said the girl, interposing—“Daukin is my dog; Daukin loves me; Daukin shall speak.”
“Let the Thane,” said the dwarf, cool and caustic, “seek his couch on pretence of fever, and let Alse, the cookmaid, receive the King. We be all devoted servants of our house. A little persuasion, a little guile, and the thing is carried.”
“I will go instruct the wench,” said Elfrida hurriedly.