“Nay,” said Alfred. “Tremble not, little one. Be not afraid. There is One higher than wicca, in whose hands we are. Let us meet the danger as Saxons.”
He turned and stood as if to hear what the seid woman said, and the trembling maiden drew close to his side.
“What is it that thou sayest, Gyda?” called Guthrum the king. “That an enemy is in our midst? Where is he that we may seize him?”
“Yon skald and the maiden are not what they seem,” called the woman loudly.
“The skald! The skald! Where is the skald?” demanded an hundred voices at once. Alfred advanced into the centre of the hall.
“Who calls the skald?” he asked. “Wish ye more of harp and song that ye cannot let a man and his daughter pass?”
“Come hither, minstrel,” commanded Guthrum as the tumult ceased suddenly at the sound of the voice of the harper. “And thou, Gyda! Come thou also, and make thine accusal.”
Alfred looked fixedly at the woman. She quailed under his glance.
“My lord,” he said to the Dane boldly, “if I seem not to be what I am, ’tis not the fault of the minstrel. In token of the truth of my words thou shalt find in the breast of the seid woman a jewel of gold. Look! if it be not there, do to the harper as thou wilt.”
With a cry of rage the seid woman clasped her hands to her bosom.