Alwin was sitting on the ground in front of the provision-shed, grinding meal on a small stone hand-mill, when Editha came to seek him.

“If it please you, my lord—­”

He broke into a bitter laugh.  “By Saint George, that fits me well!  ’If it please you,’ and ‘my lord,’ to a short-haired, callous-handed hound of a slave!”

Tears filled her eyes, but her gentle mouth was as obstinate as gentle mouths can often be.  “Have they drawn Earl Edmund’s blood out of you?  Until they have done that, you will be my lord.  Your lady mother in heaven would curse me for a traitor if I denied your nobility.”

Alwin ground out a resigned sigh with his last handful of meal.  “Go on then, if you must.  We spoke enough of the matter last night.  Only see to it that no one hears you.  I warn you that I shall kill the first who laughs,—­and who could help laughing?”

She was too wise to answer that.  Instead, she motioned over her shoulder toward the group of late-risen revellers who were lounging under the trees, breaking their fast with an early meal.  “Tyrker bids you come and serve the food.”

“If it please me?”

“My dear lord, I pray you give over all bitterness.  I pray you be prudent toward them.  I have not been a shield-maiden’s thrall for nearly a year without learning something.”

“Poor little dove in a hawk’s nest!  Certainly I think you have learned to weep!”

“You need not pity me thus, Lord Alwin.  It is likely that my mistress even loves me in her own way.  She has given me more ornaments than she keeps for herself.  She would slay anyone who spoke harshly to me.  What is it if now and then she herself strikes me?  I have had many a blow from your mother’s nurse.  I do not find that I am much worse than before.  No, no; my trouble is all for you.  My dearest lord, I implore you not to waken their anger.  They have tempers so quick,—­and hands even quicker.”

Remembering his encounter with Egil the evening before, Alwin’s eyes flared up hotly.  But he would make no promises, as he arose to answer the summons.

The little maid carried an anxious heart to her task of mending Helga’s torn kirtle.

No one seemed to notice the young thrall when he came among them and began to refill the empty cups.  The older men, sprawling on the sun-flecked grass and over the rude benches, were still drowsy from too deep soundings in too many mead horns.  The four young people were talking together.  They sat a little apart in the shade of some birch trees which served as rests for their backs,—­Helga enthroned on a bit of rock, Rolf and Sigurd lounging on either side of her, the black-maned Egil stretched at her feet.  Between them a pair of lean wolf-hounds wandered in and out, begging with glistening eyes and poking noses for each mouthful that was eaten,—­except when a motion of Helga’s hand toward a convenient riding-switch made them forget hunger for the moment.