And the king answered: 

“If he has slain him by craft, he shall die; but if in fair fight and for what men deem reason, then he shall pay the full weregild that is due according to my dooms.”

Then said the man, and his voice minded me of Owen’s in some way: 

“But and if he slew him openly in cold blood, for no wrong done to himself?”

“A strange doing,” said the king—­“but he should die therefor.”

The king leant forward, with his elbow on the table to hear the better, and the man was close to the lowest step to be near him.  It seemed that he was very wroth, for his right hand clutched the front of his rough jerkin fiercely, and his voice was harsh and shaking.

“It is your own word, Ina of Wessex, that the man who has slain my brother in this wise shall die.  Lo, you!  I am Morgan of Dyvnaint—­and thus—­”

There flashed from under the jerkin a long knife in the man’s hand, and at the king he leapt up the low steps.  But two of us had seen what was coming, and even as the brave maiden on his left dashed the full cup of wine in the man’s face, blinding him, I was on him, so that the wine covered him and my tunic at once.  I had him by the neck, and he gripped the table, and his knife flashed back at me wildly once, but I jerked him round and hurled him from the dais with a mighty crash, and so followed him and held him pinioned, while the cups and platters of the overturned table rolled and clattered round us.

Then rose uproar enough, and the hall was full of flashing swords.  I mind that I heard the leathern peace thongs of one snap as the thane who tried to draw it tugged at the hilt, forgetting them.  Soon I was in the midst of a half ring of men as I held the man close to the great fire on the hearth with his face downward and his right arm doubled under him.  He never stirred, and I thought he waited for me to loose my hold on him.

Then came the steady voice of Ina: 

“Let none go forth from the hall.  To your seats, my friends, for there can be no more danger; and let the house-carles see to the man.”

Two of my men took charge of my captive, even as he lay, and I stood up.  Owen was close to me.

“The man is dead,” he said in a strange voice.

“I doubt it,” I answered, looking at him quickly, for the voice startled me.  Then I saw that my foster father’s face was white and drawn as with some trouble, and he was gazing in a still way at the man whom the warriors yet held on the floor.

“His foot has been in the fire since you hove him there, yet he has not stirred,” he said.

Then I minded that I had indeed smelt the sharp smell of burning leather, and had not heeded it.  So I told the two men to draw the thrall away and turn him over.  As they did so we knew that he was indeed dead, for the long knife was deep in his side, driven home as he fell on it.  And I saw that in the hilt of it was a wonderful purple jewel set in gold.  It was not the weapon of a thrall.