The action let in a rush of ruddy firelight that illumined the counsellor’s bent figure from head to foot, made a leap at the silver rosary of the black-robed priest behind him, a snatch at the shining lute in the hand of Olaf the French, and came to a halt only at the edge of the curtained bed. Gradually, amid tumbled cushions and blankets of fur, Helvin’s brooding recumbent figure became visible. Frowning at it, Mord paused.
“So, I suppose, it must be; but never yet have I thought your behavior more untoward. I think now that it would have been good counsel if Starkad had given you a voice in things here, so that you might have found out the danger in it.”
As one expecting an explosion, the priest involuntarily shrank into himself; but what came instead was a sly chuckle.
“It has crossed my thoughts also that Starkad might have managed some things better,” Helvin’s voice drawled. “I wonder how it looks to the old troll himself now.”
The advice-giver turned on the threshold to say with sternness: “Young lord, is it in that manner you speak of the honored dead?”
For all answer, there came from the bed a peal of mocking laughter.
Like one who dares trust himself no longer, Mord made a swift stride through the door and away; and the Shepherd Priest spoke soothingly:
“Most dear lord!”
It could be seen that the Jarl lowered one of the fists propping his chin and turned and looked at him. He said presently, with ominous slowness:
“Are you going to take the text now, priest, and edify me with exhortations about honoring the dead? If so, pray begin by explaining why a man should be honored only because he changes from serving the Devil on earth to serving him in—”