“The king! The king! It is in sooth the king!” The glad cry went up with a shout as the Saxons pressed round him. They knelt before him, kissing his hands in their joy. Alfred turned to Denewulf:
“Old friend, hast thou naught to say? Well have ye done for your king when ye thought that he was but a poor wayfarer. Is he less welcome because he is a king?”
“No!” cried Denewulf, recovering himself. “By all the saints, no! That thou hast honored my dwelling by thy presence when in Wessex there were many so much more worthy, gives pleasure to my heart.”
“But none more leal,” returned Alfred, gazing on him kindly.
Denewulf pressed the king’s hand again and again, while over Adiva’s face came a curious look. It was a blending of triumph at the thought of having sheltered no less a personage than the king, awe at his presence, and fear of the sharp words which she had more than once addressed to him.
“My lord,” she cried, “thou wilt not hold against a poor woman the sharpness of her tongue, wilt thou? Thou wottest how pointed it becomes when the temper is overwrought. And to think that I asked thee to mind the loaves. Ah, me!”
The king laughed.
“Fear naught, dame. I should have heeded the bread. That was the task assigned me, and he who would do well in great things must look after the little ones.”
“True; but thou must have had much upon thy mind, and then to be pestered with woman’s work.”
“As thou thyself said, ‘Cares of state burthened not my mind at mealtime,’” laughed Alfred. “Nay, nay,” as Adiva grew red in her confusion, “heed not the sport, good dame. Kind hast thou shown thyself, and thy king holds thee in tender affection.”