“He has not heard.”
“What! Did he not use his influence with the Earl thy father to promote this match?”
“Aye, on grounds of policy and fortune. Thank Heaven I am not beautiful!”
“It listens and will record.”
She sighed: “Alack a doleful day! O, I wish my lord would come!”
A bugle sounding without answered on her word. There was a thud of racing hoofs, a sudden turmoil in the court, a mingling of many voices, servile or peremptory. Elfrida rose ecstatic, clasping her hands.
“’Tis he himself!” she cried, and advancing, as the curtain parted, almost ran into the arms of her husband, Athelwold.
He was tall, sinewy, pale-haired and lashed. His tunic of fine cramoisy was torn, his gold garters trailed; he looked like a man in the last extreme of haste and agitation. He took the wondering beauty in his arms, and gazed into her face, searchingly, passionately.
“Wife,” he said, “I have something of wild urgency for thy ear. I must speak it ere my blood cools. Tell me that thy heart is mine?”
“Athelwold! What questions!”