It was the young lord, who sat beside him, that answered. After a pause he said gently, “Go and try to get some sleep. At least you can dream of food.”
“I have done no otherwise for a sennight,” the man sighed as he hurried away to snatch the tongs from a serf who was spending an unnecessary fagot upon the fire. At any other time he would have shouted at him, but it was little loud talking that was done within the walls these days.
When they were left alone, the old cniht threw himself back upon the bench and covered his face with his mantle. “I have outlived my usefulness,” he moaned. “I have lived to bring ruin on the house that has sheltered me. What guilt I lie under!” For a time he lay as stark and rigid under his cloak as though death had already closed about him. The guard-room seemed to become a funeral chamber, with a mass of hovering shadows for a pall. The fire held up funeral tapers of flickering flame, and the whispers of the starving men who warmed themselves in its heat broke the silence as dismally as the voices of mourners.
But the Lord of Ivarsdale said steadily, “Not so, good friend; and it hurts my pride sorely that you should speak as if I were still of no importance in my father’s house. That which I call myself lord of, it behooved me to rule over. If ever I get out of this—” checking himself, he rose to his feet. “The smoke makes my wits heavy. Methinks I will go up into the air a while.”
He took a step toward the door, but halted when the red-cloaked page, who had been stretched near him on the bench, started up as though preparing to accompany him. “Stay where you are, lad. These fasts from sleep will parch your young brains. I go up to the platform because I would rather walk than rest; but do you remain here by the fire and try to catch a drowsiness from its heat.”
But the page advanced with the old wilful shake of his curly head. “I also would rather walk, if you please.” As he looked at him, compassion came into the Etheling’s face. The hollowness of their sockets made the boy’s large eyes look larger, and his fever-flush trebled their brightness. Sebert said, with a poor attempt at a smile, “Little did I think that my hospitality would ever produce such a guest. Poor youngling! You would better have crept out to your countrymen, as I bade you.”
Again the dark head shook obstinately. “Rather would I starve with you than feast with them. I go not out till you go.”
Something seemed to come into the young man’s throat as he was about to speak, for he swallowed hard and was silent. Putting an arm about the slender figure, he drew it to his side; and so they left the room and began to climb the stairs.
As soon as the curtain fell at their heels a stifling mustiness came to their nostrils, and a chill that was like the flat of a knife-blade pressed against their cheeks. They drew breath thankfully when they had come up into the sweet freshness of the night air. Flashing on the weapons of the pacing sentinels, a glory of silver moonlight lay like a visible silence over the parapets. In the darkness below, a sea of forest trees was murmuring and splashing at the passing of a wind. Yet deeper down in the dark glowed the fires of the Danish camp,—red eyes of the dragon that would rise ere long and crush them under his iron claws.
After they had twice made the round without speaking, the page said gravely, “I heard what Brithwald told you about the bread, lord. What will overtake us when that is gone? Shall we charge them, so that we may die fighting?” When the Etheling did not answer immediately, his companion looked up at him with loving reproach. “You forget that you need conceal nothing from me, dear lord. I am not as those clowns below. You have even said that you found pleasure in telling me your mind.”