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 and speechless, Eogan O’Niall listened to Gyda’s decision. At last he turned to his father. “Heard I aright? The princess, she of Malachy’s royal line, King Kavaran’s sister, chooses to wed this nameless stranger, who may be a spy of the Danes, for aught we know otherwise?”

“Even so, my son! Think no more of her! But yon stranger hath a lordly look. Didst mark how he never flinched, when the crowd was threatening loudest? How he holds my lady’s hands as if this were but a gathering of merry maids to see his wedding, and not the throng of angry warriors who will not lightly let him take the princess.”

“But she hath chosen him, my father,” answered Eogan, too loyal to condemn Gyda even though his heart was sorely wounded by her choice.

“True, my son, and a dark day it may be for King Kavaran. When an Irish princess married Sitric the Dane, years of war came after. But see who presses through the crowd! Ah, my brave Norseman, thy bride must be dearly won! It is Alfwine!”

A man of powerful frame had leaped upon the platform. Drawing his sword, he cried, in a voice like