The page muttered something about meaning to give her a better gift, when he should have had time to visit the trading-booth; but his foster-brother’s hand remained before him, immovable as a stone cup. He dropped the chain into it at last, and watched ruefully the stowing away of the trinket in the pouch of buff leather. Then the owner of the pouch made another demand:
“Now give me a message to go with it. Say, ‘I send therewith my hearty greeting.’”
At that, Eric so far forgot his finery as to stamp and spatter it with mud. But after a second look from under the heavy brows, he said the words, rebelling only when the circle of grinning courtmen sent up a roar of laughter at the contrast between the sentiment and the tone in which it was uttered.
“In meddling in private affairs you show bad manners,” he told them, and sent Rolf’s son a glance that was half sulky, half coaxing. “Nor do I think you have any right to scold me after I have made atonement.”
Far from scolding, his foster-brother turned to one of the courtmen who had come from a horse-fight and borrowed his riding-rod of twisted leather.
“You have made atonement for slighting Snowfrid,” he said, “but for the way you behaved about Erna, you cannot redeem yourself from stripes. Pluck off your kirtle and stand forth.”
“Foster-brother! If you will listen while I explain—”
“Already you have talked enough. Stand forth.”
“Foster-brother—”
“In a word, you will take it or run.”