“I came hither to attend your council,” replied Richard. “I have a boon to ask of the King of Denmark.”
“Any boon the King of Denmark has in his power will be yours,” said the dog’s master, slapping his hand on the little Duke’s shoulder, with a rude, hearty familiarity, that took him by surprise; and he looked up with a shade of offence, till, on a sudden flash of perception, he took off his cap, exclaiming, “King Harald himself! Pardon me, Sir King!”
“Pardon, Jarl Richart! What would you have me pardon?—your saving the life of Vige here? No French politeness for me. Tell me your boon, and it is yours. Shall I take you a voyage, and harry the fat monks of Ireland?”
Richard recoiled a little from his new friend.
“Oh, ha! I forgot. They have made a Christian of you—more’s the pity. You have the Northern spirit so strong. I had forgotten it. Come, walk by my side, and let me hear what you would ask. Holla, you Sweyn! carry Vige up to the Castle, and look to his wounds. Now for it, young Jarl.”
“My boon is, that you would set free Prince Lothaire.”
“What?—the young Frank? Why they kept you captive, burnt your face, and would have made an end of you but for your clever Bonder.”
“That is long past, and Lothaire is so wretched. His brother is dead, and he is sick with grief, and he says he shall die, if he does not go home.”
“A good thing too for the treacherous race to die out in him! What should you care for him? he is your foe.”
“I am a Christian,” was Richard’s answer.