"Bravo! By my soul, Alred, I swear 'tis fine! 'Twould fetch St. Elizabeth from her pedestal."
"Well, if it will do, draw us up your proposal atop of it, sire, and I'll try its effect upon this dainty bird of a Saxon."
"Nay, marry! not I, Alred. I'll not spoil thy elegant rhyme by adding to't my bungling prose. Finish up thy letter handsomely, as 'tis begun, and I'll affix my seal."
"By our Lady, I'll promise many things, then, which thou wilt not perform, I warrant. Here it is; listen to't,—
"'Fair Saxon,—Thy Prince is entranced, bewitched, by thy incomparable loveliness. My throne, my kingdom, were nothing compared with thee. Come to me; I vow to make thee the proudest dame in England. Fly to the arms of your impatient, expectant lover,
"'Edgar the Atheling.'
"Now affix your sign-manual, sire. I warrant this would make the hearts of half the damsels at the court of Malcolm frantic with delight. Mark me, this falcon will strike his quarry quick; if not, I vow I will not fly another this side Martinmas. Wish me luck, and a share in the spoil anon, my Prince."
So saying, Alred buttoned up his doublet, buckled on his sword, and, with the rakish air of an unprincipled Norman gallant, he swaggered off to the tent of Ethel. There, after many foppish grimaces, and much foolish adulation, he delivered the missive into her hands; adding to it suggestions and explanations which Ethel scarce comprehended, and we cannot chronicle.