A rustle of uneasiness crept the round of the assembled nobles. Only the monarch’s bland composure remained unruffled. Advancing with the deliberate grace that so well became his mighty person, he seated himself upon a convenient boulder and signed the figure in the shadow to draw nearer.
As it obeyed, every one of the yeomen-soldiers strained his eyes in that direction, as though hoping to surprise in the great traitor’s face some secret of his power, the power that had made three kings as wax between his fingers! But just short of the fire-glow the Gainer paused, and the hooded cloak which shrouded him merged him hopelessly into the shadow. Only the hand that rested on his sword-hilt protruded into the light. It was a broad hand, and thick-fingered as a butcher’s, but it was milk-white and weighted with massive rings.
Meanwhile, the King was speaking affably: “As you did not favor us with your presence among the Wise Men, my lord, it is likely that you do not know of the good luck which has befallen our cause. This prudent Earl, who before the battle had concluded with himself that England had so little to hope for from our reign that he was willing to throw his weight against us, has found his victory so without relish that he has become our sworn ally.”
As he paused,—perhaps to leave space for an answer,—the complacency of his face was heightened by a smile, faintly shrewd, touching the corners of his mouth. But when Sebert limited his reply to a respectful inclination of his head, the smile vanished abruptly. Under the affability there became evident a certain stern insistence.
“In former days, I think there was some hostile temper between the Earl and you. But I expect you will see that under the stress of a foreign war all lesser strife must give way. So I desire that you will repeat in my presence the troth already plighted by these others.”
He made a slight gesture, and the Gainer took a step forward. The light that fell back from his hooded face played curiously about his jewelled hand; as it rose from the gilded hilt, it could be seen that to remedy the bluntness of the thick fingers the nails had been allowed to grow very long, which gave it now, in its half-curve, the look of a claw, upon which the red gems shone like blood-drops.
Hesitating, the Etheling went from red to white. Then, with a swift motion, he unsheathed his sword and stretched it out, point-foremost.
“King Edmund,” he said, “in no other way does my hand go forth toward a traitor.”
This time there was no sound of breaths drawn in; it was as though the whole world had ceased breathing. The sternness that had underlain the King’s manner rose slowly and spread over the whole surface of his person, as he drew himself up in towering offence.
“Lord of Ivarsdale, bethink yourself to whom you speak!”