“Is that all?” she asked.
Glycerium responded, with a slight air of constraint, “Sigurd Olafson, the young Varangian captain.”
Lycabetta lifted herself on one elbow with a look of interest.
“I would have welcomed him, for he can hug like a bear and his blue eyes are as bright as the northern star. I could hate the King for swearing he would come to-night and so forcing me to keep my door shut. Did he leave me anything?”
“Nothing,” Glycerium admitted; “but he lifted me, there in the moonlit street, to the level of his lips and kissed me.”
Lycabetta leaned forward and gave Glycerium a playful box on the ear.
“You little thief,” she cried, “to steal the best gift of the bunch. If I thought he cared for you, child, I would make you very unkissable. Oh, I wish the King would come!”
Glycerium gave a sigh of admiration.
“He is better than the best of them,” she asserted.