In its infinite gentleness, his voice was almost tender. For as long as the space between one breath and the next, her spirit leaped up and stretched out its arms to its joy; but she stayed it on the threshold of utterance to look fearfully into his face, whose every shade was open to her as the day. Looking into his eyes, she knew that it was no more than pity. He guessed that she loved him and he pitied her; but he could not forgive her unmaidenliness, he could not love her.
Slowly and quite easily she felt her heart die in her breast, leaving only the shell, the husk, of what had been Randalin, Frode’s daughter. Her first thought Was a vague wonder that after it she could breathe and move as if she were still alive. Her next, a piteous desire to escape from him while she had this strength, before the end should really come. Clutching the broken chain, she drew herself up bravely, her words coming in uneven breathfuls. “I want not that recompense, lord. I want—nothing you have to give. Little shall you think of the debt,—or think that in helping you, I repaid you for your hospitality, your—”
Her voice broke as the memory of that time passed over her like bitter waters, and she was obliged to stand silent before him, steadying her lip with her teeth, until the waters had fallen. She had a faint consciousness that he was speaking to her, but she did not understand what he said, she did not care. Her only wish was for words that should send him away so that she might be free to sink down beside the old well and press her burning face against its smooth coldness and finish dying there.
“It was the King who sent for you, that he might know whether I had spoken the truth concerning my disguise—” she said when at last her voice returned. “Now, by coming, you have helped me against his anger,—let that settle all debt between us. I thank you much and—and I bid you farewell.” Again Elfgiva’s schooling came to her mind and she swayed before him in a courtesy. She even bent her lips into a little smile so that he should not be sorry for her and stay to tell her so. She did not know that her cheeks were as white as her kerchief, that her eyes were dark wells of unshed tears. She knew only that at last he was bowing, he was turning, in a moment more he would be gone—But just short of that point he stopped, and all motion around her appeared to stop, as a noise down the corridor blotted out every sound in the garden,—the noise of a great body of people rousing the echoes with jubilant shouting.
“The King! The King!” could be heard again and again, and after it a burst of deafening cheers that drowned the rest.
Elfgiva dropped the gilded quoits to wring her hands. “Is it the English, my lord?” she implored of Eric of Norway. “Is it the English attacking us? Shall we be killed?”
“Think you that Danes cheer like that when they are expecting death?” the Norseman reassured her with a hearty laugh. “It is good news,—great news since the whole mob has thought it safe to bring it. Hark! Can you hear what it is that they add after the King’s name?”
Listening, everyone stood motionless as the babel came nearer with a swiftness which spoke much for the speed of the shouters. Only Randalin’s little red shoe began to tap the earth impatiently. What did it matter what they said?
“Hail to Canute of Denmark!” “Hail to the King of the Danes and—” Again cheers drowned the rest.
The pages, who had sped at the first alarm like a covey of gay birds, came panting back, tumbling over one another in their efforts to impart the news.