"Jorian," said Boris, solemnly lowering his voice to a whisper, "if that Courtland fellow had known what we know, he would have been none so eager to get her home to bed and board!"
"Ice will melt—even Baltic ice!" said Jorian sententiously.
"Yes, but greybeard Louis of Courtland is not the man to do the melting!" retorted Boris.
"But I know who could!" said Jorian, nodding his head with an air of immense sagacity.
Boris went on cutting brawn upon a wooden platter with a swift and careful hand. The old servitor moved noiselessly about behind them, with feet that made no more noise than those of a cat walking on velvet.
"Who?" said Boris, shortly.
The door of the kitchen opened slightly and the tall woman stood a moment with the latch in her hand, ready to enter.
"Our Sparhawk could melt the Baltic ice!" said Jorian, and winked at Boris with his left eye in a sly manner.
Whereupon Boris dropped his knife and, seizing Jorian by the shoulders, he thrust him down upon a broad stool.
Then he dragged the platter of brawn before him and dumped the mustard pot beside it upon the deal table with a resounding clap.