“I only hope it is not the Queen,” exclaimed Richard, in dismay. “But no; Lothaire is such a coward, no doubt he was afraid to ride, and she would not trust her darling without shutting him up like a demoiselle. But come down, Alberic; I will say nothing unkind of Lothaire, if I can help it.”
Richard met the Princes in the court, his sunny hair uncovered, and bowing with such becoming courtesy, that Fru Astrida pressed her son’s arm, and bade him say if their little Duke was not the fairest and noblest child in Christendom.
With black looks, Lothaire stepped from the litter, took no heed of the little Duke, but, roughly calling his attendant, Charlot, to follow him, he marched into the hall, vouchsafing neither word nor look to any as he passed, threw himself into the highest seat, and ordered Charlot to bring him some wine.
Meanwhile, Richard, looking into the litter, saw Carloman crouching in a corner, sobbing with fright.
“Carloman!—dear Carloman!—do not cry. Come out! It is I—your own Richard! Will you not let me welcome you?”
Carloman looked, caught at the outstretched hand, and clung to his neck.
“Oh, Richard, send us back! Do not let the savage Danes kill us!”
“No one will hurt you. There are no Danes here. You are my guest, my friend, my brother. Look up! here is my own Fru Astrida.”
“But my mother said the Northmen would kill us for keeping you captive. She wept and raved, and the cruel men dragged us away by force. Oh, let us go back!”
“I cannot do that,” said Richard; “for you are the King of Denmark’s captives, not mine; but I will love you, and you shall have all that is mine, if you will only not cry, dear Carloman. Oh, Fru Astrida, what shall I do? You comfort him—” as the poor boy clung sobbing to him.