(A confused murmuring amongst the soldiers.)
(Aside to the Seneschal, alarmed) What noise is that?
Sen. (aside to King.) Your troops, my sire, are much dissatisfied,
For that their fav'rite chief by you is deem'd
Unworthy of the wreath.
King. (aside.) What, is it so? call back mine officer.(taking the wreath again, and giving it to Elb.)
This wreath was meant for one of royal line,
But ev'ry noble Mercian, great in arms,
Is equal to a prince.
Crown the most valiant Ethwald.
Elb. (crowning Ethw. with great assumed majesty.)
Long may thy laurels flourish on thy brow,
Most noble chief!
(Ethw. takes the wreath and presses it to his lips, bowing to Elb. then to the King.)
Ethw. They who beneath the royal banner fight,
Unto the fortunes of their royal chief
Their success owe. Honour'd, indeed, am I
That the brave Ethling hath so favour'd me,
And that I may, most humbly at your feet,
My royal sire, this martial garland lay.
(he, kneeling, lays the wreath at the King's feet; the King raises him up and embraces him: the Soldiers clash their arms and call out)
Sold. Long live the King! and long live noble Ethwald!
