Egwina drew back from the doorway.
“Fear not, little one,” spoke the deep voice of Wilfred. “Enter in peace. Niddering is he who speaketh so to a maiden. Fill not the ears of a child with such trifling,” he added sternly to the youth.
“And who be ye, good sir, that tells me what to do? Wot ye not that I am Ethelred of Mercia?”
“I care not who ye be,” answered Wilfred calmly. “Thy words are unmeet for a maiden’s ear. Therefore thou shalt say no more of them.”
“Shalt not?” The youth was on his feet instantly, and flashed his sword from its scabbard. “Draw, man! I wish not to strike thee as thou sittest.”
“Foolish boy, sheathe thy sword!” The stranger surveyed him with a deep intense look of power. “Thinkest thou that I would draw against thee? Thou didst merit the reproof; profit by it.”
There was so much of command in his manner as he spake that the youth hesitated, not wishing to be thought deficient in courage by his comrades and yet unable to proceed against this calm stranger.
“Abide by his words, Ethelred,” cried one of the others. “Thou wert in truth too bold in thy speech, and hast thou not partaken of their hospitality? Out, man!”
Sullenly the one called Ethelred sheathed his sword, resumed his seat, and soon the episode passed from the minds of the party. Egwina slipped into a seat on the other side of Wilfred. The dame joined the swineherd in the serving of mead, and preparing meat for the guests. Soon the hut rang with their glee.
“How bear the people the rule of the Northmen?” asked Wilfred during a lull in the mirth.