For the White Christ: A Story of the Days of Charlemagne

Cover

"'Bend lower, king's daughter--little vala with eyes like dewy violets!'" (Page [250])

FOR THE
WHITE CHRIST

A Story
of
The Days of Charlemagne

BY
Robert Ames Bennet

Having Pictures and Designs by
Troy & Margaret West Kinney

Chicago
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1905

Copyright,
By A. C. McClurg & Co.
1905

Published March 18, 1905

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London

All rights reserved

The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A.

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne,

In the free schools of Aix, how kings should rule.

LONGFELLOW.

To the Memory
of
My Mother

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

All the chapter headings of this story are taken from lays which were sung by harpers and skalds before the high-seats of heathen Norse chiefs and in the halls of the Anglo-Saxon kings, while England was yet a heptarchy and the name of Mohammed but little known to men even on the shores of the far-distant Bosphorus.

In most instances the selections are from Magnusson and Morris's beautiful translations of "The Volsunga Saga, and Certain Songs from the Elder Edda." The spirited lines from "Beowulf," "Maldon," "Finnesburh," and "Andreas" were found in Gummerle's "Germanic Origins." The translation of "Brunanburh" is by Tennyson.

Apology is due for occasional alterations and elisions, all of which will readily be detected by students of the wonderful poetic fragments which have come down to us from our Norse and Teutonic forefathers.

R. A. B.
Denver, January 1, 1905.

ILLUSTRATIONS

["'Bend lower, king's daughter--little vala with eyes like dewy violets!'"] . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece

["White to the lips, the young sea-king turned to his enemy"]

["'Love!' she cried, half hissing the word. 'You speak of love,--you, the heathen outlander!'"]

["'Go, Olvir!' muttered the king, thickly; 'go--before I forget that I once loved you'"]

FOR THE WHITE CHRIST

BOOK ONE

Now death has seized--

Bale and terror--my trusty people,

Laid down life have my liegemen all.

BEOWULF.

CHAPTER I

Swans of the Dane-folk--

The ships of Sigmund--

Heads all gilt over,

And prows fair graven.

LAY OF GUDRUN.

Early of an April morning of the year 778, a broad-beamed Frisian trade-ship was drifting with the ebb-tide down the Seine estuary. Wrapped about by the morning vapors, the deeply laden little craft floated on the stream like a dreamship. The mists shut out all view of sky and land and sea. From the quarter-deck, the two men beside the steer-oar could scarcely see across the open cargo-heaped waist to where, gathered silently about the mast, a dozen or so drowsy sailors stood waiting for the morning breeze.

The remainder of the crew lay sprawled upon the casks and bales of merchandise, side by side with a score of Frankish warriors. All alike were heavy with drunken slumber. The shipmaster, a squat red-haired man of great girth, regarded the overcome wassailers with an indifferent eye; but the tall warrior beside him appeared far from pleased by the sight.

"Is it so you rule your ship, Frisian?" he demanded. "You should have stopped the wassail by midnight. Here we swim on the treacherous sea, while our men lie in drunken stupor."

"We are yet in the stream, lord count," replied the shipmaster. "As to my Frisians, a dash of salt water will soon rouse them. If your landsmen are farther gone, what odds? Drunk or sober, they 'll be alike useless when we strike rough seas."

The Frank's face lit with a smile as quick as its frown.

"There you are mistaken, Frisian," he said. "A man may bear the wild waters no love, yet owe them no fear. Twice I have crossed this narrow sea, as envoy of our Lord Karl to the kings of the Anglo-Saxons, and my henchmen sailed with me."

"Yours are king's men, lord count,--all busked like chiefs."

"Man for man, I would pit them against the followers of any leader. Better a few picked warriors, so armed, than twice their number of common freemen."

"Well said!" muttered the Frisian; "a choice following. I 'd wager on them, even against Dane steel--except the sea-wolves of Olvir Elfkin."

"Olvir Elfkin? You speak of a liegeman of Sigfrid, King of the Nordmannian Danes?"

"No, lord count; Earl Olvir is far too proud to let himself be called the man of any king. I sail far on my trade-farings. At the fair of Gardariki, across the great gulf from the Swedes, I saw the Norse hero. His father was one-time king of the Trondir, a folk who dwell beneath the very eaves of the ice-giants. His mother was an elf-maiden from the far Eastland. Another time I will tell you that tale, lord count. I had it from Floki the Crane, my Norse sword-brother. But now I speak of Earl Olvir's following. He is so famed in the North that the greatest heroes think it honor to fight beneath his banner; and he rules the mail-clad giants as our great King Karl rules his counts. Six seasons in all he has come swooping south from his ice-cliffs to harry the coasts of Jutland and Nordmannia; and though even now he is little more than a bairn in years, each time that he steered about for his home fiord he left a war-trail of sunken longships to mark his outbound course."

"I heard much of such sea-fights from that mighty Dane hero Otkar,--he who went over to King Desiderius and fought against our Lord Karl in the Lombard war."

"Ay; who has not heard of Otkar Jotuntop,--Otkar the Dane? This very Earl Olvir of whom I spoke is of kin to the hero."

"Even I have heard of Lord Otkar," called out a childish voice, and the speaker sprang lightly up the deck ladder. She was a lissome little maiden, barely out of childhood, yet possessed of an unconscious dignity of look and bearing that well matched her rich costume.

The warrior bowed low to her half-shy, half-gay greeting, and smiling down into her violet eyes, he replied in a tone of tender deference, "The Princess Rothada is early awake. Shall I not call the tiring-woman?"

The girl put up her hand to touch the coronet which bound her chestnut hair, and her glance passed in naive admiration down the gold-embroidered border of her loose-sleeved overdress.

"Princess! princess!" she cried gayly. "To think that only four days have gone since with Gisela and the other maidens I waited upon the blessed sisters! And now I wear a ring and silken dresses, and the greatest war-count of the king my father--but are you not my kinsman, lord count?"

"Your cousin, little princess. My mother was a sister of our lord king."

"Then you shall no longer call me princess, but Rothada, and I shall call you Roland. Few maidens can own kinsmen so tall and grand!" and Rothada stared up in half-awed admiration at the count's war-dinted helmet and shining scale-hauberk.

The warrior's blue eyes glowed, but there was no vanity with his frank pleasure.

"Saint Michael give me skill to shield you from all harm!" he said.

"Surely he has already strengthened your arm. In all the land you stand second only to the king my father!--But you spoke of Otkar the Dane. Tell me more about him, cousin. Already I know that he was a heathen count from the far North, more learned than any monk or priest, and in battle mightier even than my father. Two winters ago there came to Chelles a maiden who knew many tales of the Saxon and Lombard wars,--Fastrada--"

Roland's cheeks flushed, and he stooped forward eagerly.

"Fastrada!" he exclaimed. "You knew her?"

"For a winter's time---"

"You will meet her again. She is now one of the queen's maidens,--the fairest of them all."

"Then you like her, cousin," replied Rothada, with innocent candor. "It was different with Gisela and me. Many of the maidens feared her, and she broke the holy rules and talked so much of warriors that the good abbess sent her away. Yet that is long since--she may have changed."

"None could but like her now, child," replied Roland, softly. Yet even as he spoke, some unwelcome thought blotted the smile from his face. He frowned and stared moodily out into the wavering mists.

The girl followed his look, and the sight of the water alongside recalled her to the present.

"See, kinsman," she said, with a sudden return of gayety, "the sailors spread the sail. How long shall we be upon the sea until we reach the Garonne?"

"Were we travelling by land, I could tell you, little princess. But I am no sea-count. Our shipmaster can best answer you."

The Frisian turned to the daughter of the great king with an uncouth attempt at a bow.

"Wind and wave are fickle, maiden, and no sea is rougher than the Vascon Bay," he grumbled. "But with fair wind I land you at Casseneuil while the lord count's horsemen yet ride in Aquitania."

"That I doubt, man," said Roland. "Yet here is promise of fair sailing. The sun melts the mists, and with it comes the breeze to sweep them away."

"Ay; the fog breaks. Between sun and wind we 'll see both shores before the ship gains full headway."

"I already see-- Look, man! Can we be so close inshore? What flashes so brightly?"

The Frisian wheeled about, an anxious frown lowering beneath his shaggy forelock. His alarm was only too well founded. A puff of the freshening breeze swept before it the last bank of vapor, and revealed with startling clearness two grim black hulls, along whose sweeping bulwarks hung rows of yellow shields. On the lofty prows shone the gilded dragon-heads whose glitter had first caught Roland's eye. The single masts were bare of yard and sail; but along each side a dozen or more great sweeps thrust out beneath the scaly shield-row like the legs of a dragon.

"Danes!" gasped the Frisian, and from the grimly beautiful viking ships, every line of which spoke of grace and speed, he turned a despairing eye upon his clumsy trade-ship.

"Lost! lost!" he cried. "Already they come about to give chase--Garpike and the lame duck! Paul seize all vikings!"

"No, Frisian," rejoined Roland. "These, in truth, are war-ships; yet they come in peace. Dane or other, they dare not attack us on the coast of Neustria."

As though in retort to this proud boast, a red shield swung up to each Danish masthead, and across the water rolled a fierce war-cry. Roused by the wild shout, all the sleepers in the trade-ship's waist sprang to their feet. But while the Frisians huddled about the mast like frightened sheep, the Franks met the sudden danger with the steadiness of seasoned warriors. At a sign from their lord, they crept aft, sword and axe in hand, and crouched on the deck behind the bulwarks. As they made ready for battle, Roland caught up the hand of Rothada, who stood gazing at the viking ships in mingled terror and admiration.

"Princess," he said, "the heathen shoot far with bow and sling. It is time you sought shelter below. For a while you can there lie in safety."

"But you, cousin? The Dane ships swarm with warriors. You and your men will all be slain! Do not fight them, Roland! Let there be no bloodshed."

"A wise maiden!" cried the shipmaster. "Mark the odds,--one stroke brings death to us all. Yield, lord Frank! What if they give two or three to Odin? The rest they 'll spare for thralls or set free for wergild."

"Ah, Roland, yield, then! Do not anger the terrible heathen. My father will soon ransom us."

"And what will he say to his daughter's faithless warder,--to the coward who, without a blow, yielded a king's child into heathen thraldom?--By my sword, the Danes take you only over the corpse of the last Frank in this ship!"

But proudly as he spoke, when he swung the girl down from the deck, the count's heart sickened at thought of her helplessness. How would the little cloister-maiden fare in the hands of the fierce sea-thieves? The anguish of the thought filled him with renewed rage. He gripped his sword-hilt.

"Now to die, with a score of Danes for death-bed," he muttered.

Then a sudden hope flashed from his blue eyes. He seized the steersman by the shoulder, and shouted joyfully: "Ho, Frisian; we may yet go free! Cast over the cargo! The breeze freshens; we 'll outsail the thieves!"

"Only another viking could do that--yet the cloth bales will float--the Danes may linger to pick them up. A good trick, if old-- But what-- Curse of the foul fiend! Look to seaward--three more longships--across our course!"

"The race is run! Strike sail, man, and go forward to your sailors. You and they may so save your skins. I and my men die here."

"I, too, can die," answered the shipmaster, stolidly, and he drew a curved sword-knife from his belt.

"Go; you wear no war-gear," commanded Roland.

"I will fight berserk, as they say in the North."

"Then take my shield, and with it the thanks of a Frankish count. No braver man ever fought beside me."

The Frisian took the shield, unmoved by the praise.

"Once I had a Northman for sword-fellow. They called him Floki the Crane. From him I learned the ways of vikings. They know how to die."

"No less do my henchmen," rejoined Roland, and he shook the great mane of tawny hair which fell about his shoulders. Here was no Romanized Neustrian, tainted and weakened by the vices of a corrupt civilization, but a German warrior,--an Austrasian of pure blood. He watched the approaching Danes, eager for battle.

The Frisian, as he slipped the shield upon his arm, stared at the Frank with a look of dull admiration. But when an arrow whistled close overhead, he wheeled hastily about and shouted command to strike sail. The order was obeyed with zeal, for the crew stood trembling in dread of the Danish missiles. Down rushed the great wool sheet, and an exultant shout rolled out from the pursuing longships. Count Roland smiled grimly.

"Hearken, men!" he said; "the heathen think we yield. They lay aside bow and sling. All will be axe and sword play. They shall learn the taste of Frankish steel!"

The Frisian shook his head: "No, no, lord count. They 'll board on either quarter, and overwhelm us. Your men are too scattered. The Danes--"

"No, by my sword! The leading craft sheers off."

"She steers to meet the seaward ships! The Norns smile upon us, Frank. We are doomed; but many a Dane goes before us to Hel's Land!"

"Brave words, man, though strange on the lips of a Christian," replied Roland, and he drew his short-hafted battle-axe. "Now, men, make ready. The Dane ship closes like a hound on the deer's flank. It will find the stag at bay! When I cast my axe, leap up and strike for Christ and king."

A low murmur came back from the crouching Franks, and they gripped their weapons with added firmness. They were picked men, who had fought in all the wars of Karl and of Pepin his father. One, a hoary giant of sixty, could even boast that as a boy he had swung a sword in the fateful battle of Tours, when Karl the Hammer had shattered the conquering hosts of Mohammed. Death had no terrors for such iron-hearted warriors. All they asked was the chance to sell their lives dearly. Like hunted wolves, they lay in wait, while the shouting Danes rowed up to seize their prize.

CHAPTER II

Thought shall be the harder, heart the keener,

Mood shall be the more, as our might lessens.

Grief and sorrow forever

On the man that leaves this sword-play!

SONG OF MALDON.

Already the longship lay close astern. A harsh command sent the oars rattling in through their ports; and as the dragon prow overlapped the flank of the quarry, a dozen grappling-hooks fell clanking across the bulwark. Half the longship's crew swarmed in the bows,--a wild-eyed, skin-clad band, staring with fierce greed at the casks and bales with which the trade-ship was laden. None of them looked twice at the two men standing so quietly in the middle of the deck. In their eagerness for loot, all pressed forward to board the trade-ship, and so little did they dream of resistance that many bore their weapons sheathed.

They were soon to learn their mistake. As the first Dane leaped upon the bulwark, Roland swept his axe overhead and hurled it at the luckless viking. Across the front the Dane's wolfskin serk was thickly sewn with iron rings; but the axe-blade shore through iron and hide like cloth, and buried itself in the viking's breast.

The surprise could not have been more complete. As the axe flashed over their heads, the hidden warriors sprang up and fell upon the Danes with all the fury of despair. Their lord and the Frisian sprang forward beside them, and the Frankish blades threshed across the bulwarks in swift strokes that cut down a dozen vikings before they could guard themselves. More in astonishment than dismay, the foremost Danes recoiled upon their fellows, causing a jam and confusion that prolonged the vantage of the Franks. Like flails the weapons of the grey warriors beat upon the round shields of the heathen.

"Strike! strike!" they shouted in the fierce joy of battle. "Christ and king! Down with the pagans! death to the sea-thieves!"

On the right the shipmaster thrust his pointed sword-knife into the faces of the enemy; on the left the axe of the hoary giant of Tours fell like Thor's hammer; while between the two, Roland, wielding his sword in both hands, cut down a Dane with every blow. His eyes flashed with the fire of battle, and as he struck he shouted tauntingly: "Ho, Danes! ho, sea-thieves! here is sword-play! Run, cast your spears from shelter! Frank steel bites deep!"

The answer was a roar of fury. The death of their fellows only roused the Danes to wild rage. Their huge bodies quivered, and eyes yet more fiery than Roland's flamed with the battle-light. The air rang with the clash of weapons, and the terrible war-cry swelled into a deafening roar,--"Thor aid! Thor aid! Death to the Frank dogs!"

In a mass the vikings surged forward and leaped at the bulwark. Vainly the Franks sought to withstand the shock. The crashing strokes of Roland's sword kept clear all the space within its sweep; but on either side the vikings burst across the bulwark in overwhelming numbers. Shield clashed against shield, and blades beat upon helmet and hauberk with the clang of a hundred smithies. No warriors could long withstand such odds. Down went the Frisian under the blade of a berserk axe, and after him fell the old giant of Tours, a throttled Dane in his grip. Then four more Franks fell, all together, and the whole line reeled back across the deck. The defence was broken. The Danes yelled in fierce triumph and surged forward to thrust their handful of foes over into the sea. Many warriors so hard pressed would have flung down their weapons and begged for quarter. Not so the henchmen of the king's kin.

"Back to back!" called their count, and for a moment he checked the Danish rush by the sweep of his single sword. Brief as was the respite, it gave his followers time to rally. They sprang together and ringed about their leader in a shieldburg that all the wild fury of the vikings could not break. Like their lord, these grey warriors were Rhinemen of pure German blood. Between them and their foes was slight difference other than the veneer of a nominal Christianity. Drunk with the wine of battle, they whirled their reddened blades and rejoiced to slay and be slain in Odin's game. One by one, they staggered and fell, striking even in the death-agony. Those who were left only narrowed their ring to close the gaps, and fought on.

Of all the virtues, Northman and Teuton alike gave first place to courage. Wonder seized the Danes at the very height of their blood-fury. Never before had even they, the fierce sea-wolves, witnessed such sword-play. Overcome by admiration, many drew back as the last few Franks fell dying. When Roland stood alone within their circle, by common impulse they lowered their weapons and shouted to spare the hero. Only one voice dissented--but it was the voice of the Danish chief.

The sea-king had been steering his ship, and so unexpected and furious was the fight that its end came before he could force a way through the press of his own men. Enraged that he had failed to come to blows, he now pushed to the front, a grand and imposing figure in his scale hauberk and gold-winged helmet. But beneath the helmet's bright rim lowered a face more brutal and ferocious than a Saxon outlaw's.

"Way!" he shouted; and as the vikings parted, he stepped over the slain to where Roland leaned heavily upon his sword.

"So-ho!" he jeered, and he eyed the gasping Frank with cruel satisfaction. "They breed bears in the South worth the baiting."

Roland's eyes flashed as he answered: "Heathen boar! you may well talk of baiting. Count your men who have fallen. Had I half my strength, I 'd send you with them to burn in Tartarus!"

"Had you all your strength, Frank, I should strike off your hands with Ironbiter my sword, and cast you overboard to the sea-god. As it is, I 'll take you thrall and break your back on Thor's Stone at the Winter Sacrifice. Next Yule the followers of Hroar the Cruel shall drink to Thor and Frey from the skull of Earl Roland, the kin of the Frank king."

The count started in astonishment.

"Tell me, Dane!" he cried; "how do you know my name? Not by chance did you lie in the Seine Mouth!"

"True, thrall; I can swear to that," answered Hroar, and he laughed. "Be certain I would not risk King Sigfrid's longships thus far south without sure gain. It is no harm to speak truth to a man who is doomed,--dead men tell no tales. May you have joy of your answer!"

"I laugh at death. Now tell me, Dane!"

"Know then, my merry thrall, that tidings of your sailing flew to Nordmannia straight from the hall of your king. Sigfrid had word from Wittikind the Saxon, and he from well-wishers across the Rhine. Not all your king's foes dwell without his borders. Some speak Frankish for mother-tongue--"

"You lie! No Frank is traitor."

Hroar only laughed and answered jeeringly: "Maybe a little bird told how Earl Roland should sail south from the Seine with the Frank king's daughter,--a little bird in Frankish plumage. He sang a golden song for me. Your ship rides deep with her cargo, and Frisian thralls fetch a good price at the Gardariki fair.--But I would see your princess. If she is young and comely, I may have other use for her than to grind meal."

At the brutal words, fury seized upon Roland. His eyes blazed, and rage lent sudden strength to his tottering frame.

"Heathen dog!" he gasped; "never shall your eyes look on Rothada!"

Before Hroar could guard or leap aside, the Frank's sword swung overhead and whirled down upon his helmet like a sledge. Had the casque been of common make, Hroar would have met his fate on the spot. As it was, the blow beat a great dint in the gilded steel and sent the sea-king reeling backward, stunned and blinded. A dozen vikings sprang between to shield him, but Roland's sword dropped at their feet. Faint from loss of blood, and utterly spent by that last great blow, the count swayed forward. Darkness shut out from him the ring of shouting heathen. He fell swooning upon the heap of corpses.

"A champion! a champion! The Frank has won his freedom!" cried the vikings, and they pressed about to raise the fallen warrior. Heedless of their own wounds, they sought to bind up his injuries. Their warlike but generous natures yielded homage to the hero who had met overwhelming odds without dismay and had struck a berserk blow even when falling. They forgot the boasted cruelty of their leader.

Never before had the sea-king suffered such a helmet stroke. For several moments he stood dazed, blinking at the stars which flashed before his eyes, while his head hummed like a kettle. Then his vision cleared, and he saw what his men were about. Into their midst he sprang, gnashing his teeth like a wolf.

"Aside, dogs!" he yelled. "Give me my thrall. I will tear out his lying tongue!"

The Danes gave back before the threatening dagger of their chief, and he sprang upon his victim with a yell of triumph. The Frank should pay dearly for that blow!

Some of the milder vikings muttered against the deed. This Frank was no whining coward, no low-born outlander, but a fair-haired hero, such as the Sigurds and Beowulfs of the olden days.

At the best, the Danes bore little love for the cruel Jutland champion whom King Sigfrid had set over them. So now they murmured openly. But Hroar was no less fearless than he was cruel. Regardless of their protests, he turned the fallen Frank upon his back. No wolf ever fell upon his prey with fiercer greed.

Already he had set about his deed, when a cry of surprise from his followers caused him to look up. The crowd had opened, and through the midst of the warriors came a little child-maid, the like of whom the brutal Dane had never seen. Utterly lost to self in her fear for her kinsman, the girl advanced with outstretched arms, her tender eyes full of reproach, her pure young face aglow with spiritual light. Had she been Skuld, youngest of the Norns, the Dane could not have been more astonished. He glared at the child in dull wonder. Could this be Freya's maid,--Gifion, Goddess of Innocence and Maidenhood? At the thought, he started back, a superstitious dread clutching at his heart. But when the first shock of surprise had passed, he perceived the Frankish fashion of the girl's double tunic and the circlet that marked her rank.

"Spawn of Loki!" he snarled. "It's only the Frank king's daughter."

"I am Rothada, and Karl the King is my father," said the girl, with simple dignity. "Are you not the Dane count?"

Hroar scowled assent.

"Speak," he said.

The girl's courage began to falter before the ferocity of the sea-king's stare, and, shuddering, she gazed about her at the heaps of dead and wounded warriors. But she saw friendly looks upon many of the viking faces, and forgot her fears once more in the thought of her fellow-captives.

"I come to offer ransom," she said,--"wergild for all who yet live. My father will pay for every one,--Frank and Frisian alike."

"Doubtless!" sneered Hroar. "But we will talk of that in Nordmannia before King Sigfrid. Wittikind may have a word to say in the matter. One thrall at least I keep as my share of the loot. Stand aside while I put my mark on him."

For the second time the Dane turned to his victim. But Rothada was quicker than he. With a piteous cry for mercy, she flung herself upon Roland and sought to shield him from the knife with her own slender body. The sight would have melted any heart that held the slightest trace of nobleness. It stirred the vikings to open mutiny. They renewed their protests, with deeper menace in their tones, and when Hroar bent and grasped the maiden roughly by the shoulder, one of the foremost swung up his sword.

"Stay, Hroar!" he commanded. "I am not used to looking on at foul deeds. You must first pluck out my eyes before you take the Frank's tongue."

"Ay, and mine!" growled a second viking.

Hroar stood erect and glared at the daring men. But neither gave way before his terrible look. They had the backing of their fellows. The sea-king saw this, yet his hand went to the hilt of his heavy sword. The fight was averted, none too soon, by a scarred old berserk.

"Bear wisdom to Urd!" he called scoffingly. "Hroar bickers with his wolves, while the Norse hawks swoop upon him."

At the warning, every Dane aboard the trade-ship wheeled about and stared seaward. The harsh alarm of a war-horn, braying over the water, was not needed to explain the situation. A bowshot away they saw their second longship surging at full speed up the estuary. A fountain of white spray spouted from under its forefoot, and the boiling sea alongside, threshed to foam by the oar-blades, told that every bench was full, every rower pulling to the utmost of his strength. Not without cause! Close in the Dane's wake the three longships of the outer estuary came gliding over the water in swift pursuit. Each lay far over under the pressure of its great square sail, and from the mail-clad crews packed along the fighting gangway behind the weather bulwarks, rose jeers and grim laughter at the efforts of the Danes to escape.

"Norse!" shouted Hroar. "Thor! they mean to attack us! Aboard ship and man the oars--yet stay! First scuttle the trader. We leave no booty for the fiordmen!"

"They strike sail!" cried the old berserk. "Wait a little. They do not swing the red shield. It may be a jest."

"A bitter jest-- Ho! the foremost comes on alone. Aboard ship, all, and stand ready to cast off. I wait the Norse earl here."

CHAPTER III

Thou the bane of thy brothers wast,

The chief of thy kin,--whence curse of Hel

Awaits thee, good as thy wits may be!

BEOWULF.

At the alarm of the Danes, the trembling heart of the little princess leaped with joy. But the sudden hope gave way as quickly to renewed terror. Why should the cruel sea-count linger on the trade-ship alone if not to carry out his ferocious revenge? Closer than ever the girl clasped the senseless warrior in her arms, until the blood from his wounded head seeped warm through her silken kirtle, and the bell-like rim of his helmet bruised her tender bosom.

Breathless, she listened to the rush and outcry of the vikings as with their wounded fellows they poured back into the longship. Then, in the lull which followed, she could hear the smothered wail of her tiring-woman, crouched in the cubby beneath her. Gaining courage from the silence, she at last ventured to raise her head. She saw Hroar at the farther bulwark, gazing intently down the estuary. He did not move, and Rothada rose timidly to look around.

The second Dane ship was coming about only a few yards astern; but its crew, like the crew of its consort, were far too intent on watching the Norse ship to give heed to the little maiden. Even the Frisian sailors had ceased to cower, and were lined along the bulwarks forward, full of eager hope that the approaching longship might bring them a change of masters. Hroar's cruelty was only too well known throughout Frisia.

Rothada also gazed at the stately prow of the stranger and joined in the longing of her fellow-captives that the new-comers would seize the trade-ship for their own. But the little maiden's faith gave her still fairer hopes than those cherished by the Frisians. To her girlish innocence, deliverance now seemed certain. She had only to appeal to the Norse count, and he would accept ransom for all. Tears of gratitude shone in her violet eyes as she stooped to bind up with deft fingers such of Roland's wounds as the Danes had failed to stanch.

Her task ended, the girl started up again to gaze over into the Norse ship as it glided alongside. The vessel swarmed with huge warriors, whose superiority to the Danes both in discipline and armor was so striking that even the convent-bred maiden could not but perceive the difference. Against such men, even had the odds been reversed, the Danes could not have hoped to hold their own.

When Rothada comprehended this, she clasped her hands in joy and looked eagerly about for the Norse leader. A small blue banner, emblazoned with a gold star, fluttered on the longship's stern, and Rothada's first thought was that the blond viking at the helm beneath it must be the sea-king. But then, standing alone in the vessel's prow, she saw a warrior whom even she could not but recognize as the Norse leader. His round casque, though wingless, was of blue steel and rimmed with a gold band in whose front sparkled a garnet star. Even more beautiful was the young sea-king's serk, or coat, of ring-mail, which shimmered in the sun like ice. His small round shield differed from the usual Norse and Frankish patterns both in the greater convexity of its shape and in the material of its face,--a disc of hammered steel. Its bluish surface, polished like a mirror, was traced with gold damascening both on the boss and on the thickened rim.

Yet with all the young sea-king's splendid war-gear, so slight and boyish did he appear in contrast to his followers that Rothada at first thought he could be little older than herself. But when he stepped forward and answered Hroar's hail, it was with a haughtiness of tone and bearing far other than childlike.

Even as he spoke, the Northman sprang upon the bulwark of his ship and, great as was the distance which yet separated the vessels, leaped for the trade-ship's deck. With a cry of astonishment, Hroar sprang sideways from before him, down upon the smooth surface of the bales of goods in the after hold; while high above the water the leaper's bright figure flashed through the air and shot in over the bulwark. Lightly as a panther, the Northman struck the deck and turned instantly to confront the Dane. But Hroar stood motionless, overcome with wonder at the daring leap, and did not seek to regain the deck.

Seeing that there was no danger of immediate attack, the Northman lowered his shield and looked about with keen glances at the slaughtered Franks and Danes.

"Thor!" he cried, "these Rhinemen fought well. Would that I had led the heroes! But what's this?--a Frank yet alive, and beside him a child-maid!"

Now entirely heedless of the Danish sea-king, the Northman advanced to stare at the forlorn survivors of Hroar's attack. Had Rothada possessed her cousin's knowledge of men and customs, she would have stared back at the sea-king in bewilderment. The haughty face which so coldly confronted her was dark and oval, with arched nose, lofty brow, and black eyes of intense brightness,--features part Arab, part Greek in character, but in no respect Norse. Yet the young chief's hair proved quite as fully that his leadership must be founded on kingly Norse blood. It was of silky fineness and curled down beneath his helmet rim in locks like burnished red gold. His dress also was that of a king's son. The cloak of sable, clasped by a jewelled brooch, was lined with cloth of gold, while money-rings coiled their yellow spirals around the ring-mail sleeves which extended to his wrists.

Abashed by the extreme brightness of the sea-king's gaze, Rothada lowered her admiring eyes to the splendid recurved sword which swung at his belt. Roland could have told her that the weapon was a sword of the Saracen folk,--a Damascus blade, which would bend to the hilt without snapping and, like the Wrath of Sigurd, cut alike through iron bars and floating wool. With the peace-thongs knotted, even that far-famed blade of Regin's forging could not have compared with this magnificent weapon, whose sheath sparkled with gems, and upon whose pommel blazed the splendor of a priceless ruby.

The glint of gold and jewels recalled to Rothada's mind her own high rank, and gave her courage to glance up again. At sight of the milder light in the dark eyes of the sea-king, she raised her arms to him appealingly.

"Bright count of the sea!" she cried, "the dear Christ has sent you to save us. The cruel Dane's knife shall not harm my kinsman!"

The Northman glanced down at the wounded Frank.

"Who is this warrior?" he demanded.

"My kinsman, Count Roland. He is a high lord of King Karl, my father--"

"Your father,--the Frank king!" cried the Northman, and his eyes flashed a look at the girl that made her tremble. But again their keenness softened, and he pointed to her bosom.

"There's blood upon your kirtle," he muttered. "Do these Danes war upon babes and bairns?"

"It is my kinsman's blood. The Dane count would have harmed him as he lay helpless. I tried to shield him."

"Bravely done, little maiden! Though twice over the daughter of King Karl, the deed shall count you good weight in the balance. Take heart! Not all vikings are swine. Olvir Thorbiornson does not war upon maids and stricken heroes. Now I go to settle with this Dane boar who rends fallen foes."

"It is time to cease prattle," Hroar called up jeeringly. "Come, talk with a warrior. What says the bairn with outland face? Will he meet a sea-king singly in sword-play, and stake the trade-ship as prize?"

At the challenge a strange smile lit up the Northman's dark face; but he replied gravely: "A shrewd bargain, Dane! You would have me fight for what I need only reach out my hand to take. First tell me your name."

"You 're late from your mother's bower, bairn. Few vikings ask the name of Hroar the Cruel."

"Hroar! Hroar the Cruel!" repeated the Northman, in a smothered voice. His hand closed on the hilt of his sword, and his face went white with anger. Had Hroar seen the look in his eyes, he would not have grinned at his pallor or at the soft lisping voice in which the Northman answered: "Go, bid your other ship make fast. All craft shall lie quiet while I make an end of Hroar the Cruel."

The Dane laughed derisively, yet turned to repeat to his own crew the command which the Northman shouted over the opposite bulwark. Soon all six ships were drifting abreast on the stream,--the two Danes on one side of the trader, the three Norse craft on the other. The Danish crews kept warily aboard their ships, ready either for fight or flight. But as the first Norse ship grappled, from its prow a blond young giant leaped, axe in hand, sheer over Hroar's head, and down upon the cargo beyond him.

"Loki!" cried Hroar, starting back. "Erling Fairhair! The dead come to life!"

"Your guilt stings you, murderer," rejoined Olvir. "This is only Liutrad, son of Erling--but he bears his father's axe; and now comes one--"

"Ha, Floki--Floki the Crane!" gasped Hroar; and he glared like a trapped wolf at the strange viking who sprang down over the bulwark after young Liutrad. Though little broader than his fellow-Northmen, the man towered up a good span above seven feet in height, and the long-shafted halberd which he bore on his shoulder did not tend to lessen the effect of his giant stature.

At sight of the Dane chief a ferocious smile distorted the wry face of the giant, and he bent to him mockingly.

"Heya, old shipmate!" he croaked. "Many winters have sped since we parted on the Rhine bank."

Hroar licked his dry lips and answered thickly: "Those were good old days when we followed Thorbiorn and Otkar over sea and land. I call to mind the loot of Kars, when Thorbiorn bore off the emir's daughter for bride. You were not so mean in those days as to sail under a boy whose outland swartness--"

"--Proves the blood of the emir's daughter."

"How!--this elf the son of Thorbiorn Viking?"

"Ay," murmured Olvir; "the son of the lord you betrayed. Ho, Danes! now shall the murderer pay his blood-debt. Many times I have harried your dune coasts in search of this foul traitor, who, one and twenty winters gone, sold his sword-fellows and his earl into the ambush of the boy Karl."

"That is a lie!" shouted Hroar. "Only to save my own life--"

"Be still!" commanded Olvir. "The Crane shall bear witness for me. State the charge, Floki."

The lofty Northman stepped upon a cask, and his grey eyes swept their gaze over the Danish ships and back to the Danish sea-king, cold and hard as steel.

"Hearken, Danes," he began in a dry croak; "Floki the Crane is not given to lying. He can strike his bill straight to the mark, and his tongue thrusts as straight. Doubtless this murderer has told you how in days gone by Thorbiorn Viking fell in the Frankish ambush on Rhine Stream. I, too, was there. Like the earl, I was struck down by the Frankish spears. I saw the boy Karl rush out upon our fallen leader; then a war-hammer stretched me witless. When I saw again, before me stood the traitor Hroar. In his hand was the sword of his lord, and he was making blood-play of his own shipmate, Hauk Otterson, whom men called Longarm. When Hauk was dead, his slayer came to me. He was minded first to cut off my feet, because, as he said, I was too tall. But then came the son of Pepin, and, casting at the traitor the gold for which he had sold his fellows, bade him begone from Frank Land. When, after many years, I broke from the Frankish thrall-bonds, I searched long and fruitlessly for the murderer. He had hid his shame in the Saxon forests."

"He lies--the croaking stork lies! There is no proof!" cried Hroar, loudly; but his eyes fell before the look of his grim accuser, and glanced uneasily over the bloody deck, until a dry chuckle from Floki stung him out of his caution.

"At the least, you will grant that the charge is somewhat stale," he sneered.

"The fouler the deed's stench," retorted Floki, thrusting forward his sharp face with a look of deadly menace. "We have run you down at last, coward, and you shall pay your share of the blood-debt. Hearken, Danes! The viking's son is not hunting this boar alone; he hunts bigger game! When I, hopeless of finding the traitor singly, after many winters fared home to Trondheim to gain aid, I found this unknown son of Thorbiorn dwelling outlaw in Starkad's grave-mound with Otkar, his foster-father. Since then each season we have scoured your dune coasts for the traitor. But the great wielder of Starkad's axe set foot on the trail of mightier game. Who of the North has not heard how, in the hall of King Carloman the Frank, and in the realm of Desiderius the Lombard, Otkar Jotuntop, wisest and strongest of warriors, fought and plotted against King Karl with all the craft of his wit and lore and the terror of his axe? Yet the grey bear failed to wreak vengeance against Thorbiorn's slayer, and his ashes lie in Starkad's mound. But here above me stands his bright fosterling, and when Olvir Thorbiornson has slain Hroar the traitor, he shall sail on to bring to an end the task of Otkar."

"Otkar--Otkar!" echoed a feeble voice. "Who speaks of the Dane hero?"

As the viking leaders wheeled about in surprise, Roland, aided by Rothada, sat up and stared at them with dazed eyes.

"The Frank earl!" muttered Olvir. "You 've heard of him, Floki,--Count Roland, the Frank king's kinsman."

"Ay, ring-breaker; I remember how, when he returned, Otkar spoke much of this brave Frank."

"Even when he lay dying--"

"Saint Michael! he is not dead,---Otkar the Dane, who, all but single-handed, cut his way from Pavia through the thick of our host! I stood in his battle-path, thinking, in my boyish folly, to check the rush of the grey bear. But he was high-minded; he struck with the flat. Would that he had not fled to the Greeks! When the king saw his battle-path, he swore to make him Count of the Saxon Mark."

"How! Otkar his foe?" exclaimed Olvir.

The Frank stared up at him and nodded faintly as he sank back upon the heap of bodies. The Northman gazed back at him for a little with a puzzled look. But an impatient growl from Hroar recalled his attention to the Dane.

"Hark, my Frank hero," he said; "we will talk of this later. Now my sword sings the death of Hroar the betrayer. Run, maiden; fetch drink for the hero, that he may have strength to watch the sword-game."

"So the laggard at last draws sword," sneered Hroar. "He has had his pleasure; now I claim mine. Ironbiter thirsts; yet before he tastes the warm blood the pledge of the fight shall be made known. Speak out, bairn! If I win I go hence with trade-ship and all, unhindered,--let the charge against me be what it may."

"Such are the terms,--all men bear witness!"

A grin of cunning triumph broadened the Dane's ferocious face.

"Then now is Hroar ready," he called loudly. "Now will Ironbiter split the skull of this base-born changeling as it split the skull of the man he calls father."

A terrible oath burst from the lips of Floki; but Olvir silenced him with a look. Then, white to the lips, the young sea-king turned again to his enemy.

"Dare you repeat that lie?" he asked in the soft lisp that betrayed to his steersmen how deadly was his anger.

"So the bairn begins to quake," jeered the Dane, deceived by the Northman's seeming mildness. "Even so quaked that braggart Thorbiorn when I swung Ironbiter his own sword above his head."

"That is a double lie," rejoined Olvir, in the same quiet voice. "If you met Thorbiorn, son of Starkad, in battle, it was not he who quaked. Nor did you slay the hero. When he lay dying, pierced by the darts of hidden foes, the boy Karl ran from behind and thrust him in the back. Floki is no liar."

"No, by Odin," boasted Hroar. "Floki did not see all. Pepin's son sought to stay me when I ran to end the snared wolf. Would that I had broken the back of the meddlesome bairn! Floki has told how he drove me from his camp before I was half done my play with the thralls."

"Enough, murderer!" cried Olvir. "Now are you doomed; look on your bane!"

With the words, the young sea-king's hand gripped the hilt of his curved sword. The blade flashed from its sheath like a tongue of blue flame. Proudly its wielder held the weapon up before him and gazed at the play of iridescent light on its mirror surface.

"Al-hatif, the Priceless! the Beautiful!" he half whispered. Then suddenly his black eyes flamed with a terrible joy. He flung off his cloak and leaped down before Hroar, whirling the blade about his head.

"Come, Dane! come, coward!" he shouted. "Long have I sought you. Come to the serpent's kiss! come to your bane! Hel's blue hand outstretches; Fenir shall rend you!"

At the biting taunts the Dane's massive figure quivered with passion, and all the malevolence of his nature showed in his brutal face. Up swung his ponderous sword, and he advanced upon his foe like an aurochs bull.

"Leap, bairn!" he yelled. "Ironbiter swings; he will split your swart face!"

But the Northman did not leap.

"Strike and see," he called tauntingly.

Even more scornful than his words was the Northman's bearing as he lowered his sword and stood with the little shield raised overhead. To thus set himself in the way of his huge opponent seemed little short of madness alike to the Danish vikings and to Roland. The Frank could not restrain a groan of despair, while Rothada, darting back to his side with a flask of wine, cried out in terror. Already the great sword whirled overhead to cut down their champion.

A glance at the Norse steersmen might have reassured the captives. The blond young giant and his lofty companion were waiting the outcome of Hroar's attack no less calmly than their slender leader. Cool and quiet, Olvir faced the savage Dane, his lip curled in a haughty smile; but his eyes glittered like an angry snake's. Stung by the scorn of the smile, Hroar put all his strength into the sweep of his sword.

"Thor aid!" he roared, and the sword whirled down with terrific force. But the Northman only smiled the more scornfully and caught the blow on his tilted shield with such consummate skill that the blade glanced harmlessly aside from the steel surface.

A deafening uproar greeted the feat, the Danes on the one side crying out their wonder, while the Northmen across answered with shouts of triumph. The noise ceased as abruptly as it burst out. Olvir had raised his curved sword and tapped the hauberk of the Dane in warning. Had he wished it, he could have slain his enemy then; for Hroar was so astonished by the turning of the blow that he stood with lowered shield.

"Ward yourself, Dane!" cried the Northman; and as Hroar started back, the Damascus sword began to dart forward like the beak of a striking heron. Up whirled Ironbiter for a second stroke; but Olvir did not wait its fall. With a wild cry he hurled himself upon the Dane like a maddened wolf. Above, below, on all sides, his sword flashed around Hroar's shield in thrusts so swift that no eye could follow. In vain Hroar sought to cut down with sweeping strokes the bright figure that leaped in upon him till the two shields clashed; in vain he sought to avoid the lightning sword-thrusts that dazzled his eyes.

Bleeding from a dozen stabs, his shield-arm pierced and cheek laid open, the ferocious Dane drew back appalled. His glaring eyes no longer saw a human foe before him; that shimmering, leaping figure was Thor, the Danish Thor, terrible in his youth and beauty.

Step by step the Dane retreated, until his back struck the bulwark. The touch spurred him to desperate fury. But he sprang forward, only to reel back again before the stabs of the pitiless sword. The end was now come. Half dazed, he dropped his shield to meet a leg feint, and the blade lunged through his unguarded neck, so that the point stood out a span behind.

CHAPTER IV

There the King, the wise-hearted,

... the mighty king.

LAMENT OF ODDRUN.

On the picturesque Garonne bank, beneath the Roman walls of Casseneuil, lay the camp of the Frankish host. Since Easter the levies of blue-eyed Allemanni and dark-eyed Aquitanians and Bretons had been pouring in to swell the ranks.

For a mile around, the fertile hills were dotted with tents and booths. Overhead stretched a canopy of blue haze, the smoke of the countless fires. Long lines of ox-wains trailed in from all parts of the land; great droves of cattle browsed in the meadows; and water craft of all sizes sailed to and fro on the Lot and the Garonne, or lay moored along the banks while busy sailors shifted cargo. The larger vessels were from Bordeaux and the sea; others plied between Casseneuil and Toulouse, where a smaller host--Burgundians and Lombards, and the Goths and Gallo-Romans of Septimania and Provincia--were being mustered by Barnard, the king's uncle, to invade the Saracen country by way of Narbonne. The grandson of Karl the Hammer was gathering his might to strike the pagans such another blow as had shattered their host on the plains of Touraine.

The royal pavilion stood in the heart of the camp, close to the river's bank. Above its peak floated the gold-bright folds of the three-forked standard, and the scores of messengers that came and went told that Karl the King was busied with the affairs of his vast realm. Those who passed in saw first a striking assemblage of the king's liegemen,--long-robed priests, counts in full war-gear, and court officials, ornate with silks and jewels. Here were warriors who had seen the fall of Pavia and helped to hew down the Irminsul; bishops and abbots who ruled ecclesiastical estates, the revenues of which were little less than princely; missi dominici,--those trusty liegemen who bore the king's will to outland lords, or journeyed through their appointed ridings to bring justice for all against the petty tyrannies of count and bishop and judge.

Yet though the pavilion held within it many of the most famous men of the greatest realm since the fall of the Western Empire, the new-comer would have been certain to pass by all alike with a hasty glance and turn half reverently to the low dais where Karl the King sat on his oaken throne. Aside from his jewelled sword-belt, there was little of gold or gems about the massive figure; but beneath the sapphires and holy nail of the Lombard crown the grey eyes of the great Frank gazed out with calm power. War-counts and priests alike bowed before that glance; for in mind, as in body, Karl was master of them all.

The last of the missi called into service had been despatched to inspect the four quarters of the realm, and the king was now in earnest consultation with two Moslem envoys. The contrast between the lean figure and patriarchal beard of the older Saracen and the blond, massive-limbed Frank was as great as that between the king's jerkin and cross-thonged stockings and the envoy's green turban and flowing white burnous. Yet such of the bystanders as were accustomed to look beneath mere outward appearance saw in the Arab sheik's dark face an expression strikingly like that which gave such dignity to the fresh ruddy countenance of the king. Not all the wide difference in race and dress and years could hide the stamp of power with which Nature had marked the features of the two.

The other Saracen, who, like the king, appeared to be scarcely three or four years past thirty, showed warrior training in every pose and feature; but a covert sneer lurked beneath his impassive smile, and from eyes that blinked like those of a bird of prey he shot quick, evil glances at the surrounding Franks.

Presently there entered the pavilion a thick-set, tow-haired warrior, with red, beer-bloated features, who jostled his way to the front without wasting breath in apologies for his rudeness. As he approached the dais the younger Saracen glanced at him, and, with a seemingly careless gesture, touched the hilt of his scimetar. He turned away at once to join in the parting salaams to the king, while the boorish warrior returned to the pavilion's entrance. As he came to a halt near the Grand Doorward, he pointed outside, his low forehead creased in a savage scowl.

"Here comes the duke now, and in choice company," he grumbled. "The Merwing shall learn that Rudulf's daughter is not for a Vascon, though he be twice over the rightful heir of Clovis."

"Does Count Hardrat speak of the Vascon Wolf?" inquired the doorward, half heeding.

"Vascon fox!" rejoined Hardrat. The jest seemed to ease his ill-humor, and he turned his gaze to the duke's beautiful companion.

The girl was young,--certainly not more than seventeen,--but of all the queen's maidens, none could lay claim to so many suitors. Among her own people and the other blond Germans beyond the Rhine she would have been considered too dark for perfect beauty; but, North Rhine or South Rhine, few men could have looked at her without a quickened pulse-beat. There was allurement in every line of her softly moulded features, in the rich bloom of her olive cheeks, and in the silky meshes of her gold-brown hair. Envious rivals might say that her eyes were over-narrow for beauty, and her lips of too vivid a scarlet. None the less, the ardent warriors and courtiers, and more than one mitred churchman, longed for the kiss of that enticing mouth, and willingly gave themselves over to the spell of the bewitching eyes with their strangely shifting tints of blue and green.

Such was Fastrada, the daughter of Count Rudulf, youngest, fairest, and most sought for among the queen's bower-maidens.

It was not to be wondered, therefore, that as he strolled with her up to the pavilion Duke Lupus kept his small eyes fixed upon the girl in an amorous stare. Near the entrance he paused and sighed regretfully.

"Here is the king's tent, maiden," he said. "I wish it had been more distant. At your side the way was all too short. I am more than repaid that I left my horse at the villa gate for my suite to bring after."

The girl looked up, open-eyed, into the Vascon's sensual face, and replied with a simplicity that to a casual observer would have appeared almost naive: "The noble Lupus has done me great honor by his escort. Our gracious queen will not soon forget such a favor."

"And the queen's most charming maiden--?"

Fastrada bent her head to hide a smile, but her voice was very soft: "Who could forget a kindness from the Duke of the Vascons,--from the rightful heir of Clovis?"

Lupus started, and glanced hastily before him into the pavilion. He had often boasted of his descent from that long line of lustful, bloody, indolent Merwing kings, the last of whom had been deposed and his crown seized by Pepin the Short; but all of those boasts had been uttered when the usurper's son held court on the farther side of Aquitania. His relief was heartfelt when he perceived that only one other than himself had heard the dangerous compliment. Hardrat met his furtive glance with a meaning smile and came forward to bow before Fastrada.

"Saints grant I may be of service to our dame's fairest maiden," he said.

The girl lowered her eyes demurely.

"I bear a message to our lord king," she replied.

"Then the Christian maiden must wait for heathen dogs."

Fastrada looked up at her two suitors with an arch smile, but only Lupus perceived the trace of malice that lurked in the corners of the scarlet lips.

"Do not be angry for me, Count Hardrat," she said. "It is a pleasure to wait in company such as that with which I am favored."

Both lords smiled at the flattery; but while the duke repaid the compliment in graceful phrases, Hardrat glared at his rival with jealous suspicion. From beneath her modestly drooping lashes Fastrada watched how the Thuringian's brow lowered under the arrogant stare of the duke. Her pulse quickened, and the shifting tints deepened in her downcast eyes. But the war-count checked his threatened outburst, and so put an end to the sport.

Petulantly the girl turned to the entrance, only to look about in appeal to the Vascon.

"Ai, lord duke," she exclaimed; "who are these heathen? I can see only their strange headgear."

"They are Saracen counts, the pagan allies of our Most Christian King," answered Hardrat, and he smiled ironically. "But look,--their audience comes to an end. I can now lead you in before his Majesty."

"I give thanks," murmured Fastrada, but her eyes were fixed upon the envoys. The officials near the entrance had drawn apart, and the white-robed Saracens, having salaamed themselves to a respectful distance from the dais of the mighty Afranj sultan, were completing their exit in a more dignified manner. The tall leader came out like a veritable Sheik el Islam, his firm tread, erect frame, and eagle glance giving the lie to the whiteness of his hair and flowing beard.

Fastrada slipped in front for a closer view of the grand old warrior, but was met by the leering gaze of the younger envoy behind him. Before his stare the girl shrank back, blushing with offended pride. Yet she looked eagerly around after the Saracen leader, and her changeful eyes sparkled as she exclaimed: "There goes a hero! Would that he were young! We 'd see a warrior such as few Franks could withstand."

"Strange words for a daughter of Thuringia," replied Lupus; "yet, none the less, they are very fitting. Al Arabi is a count of great fame among his people. He has held many high offices, and though no longer Count of Saragossa, he is friend and chief councillor of Al Huseyn, the vali who succeeded him. Old as he is, even now he can strike a heavy blow."

"He is a raven-feeder!" growled Count Hardrat. "Nor is Vali Kasim a babe. The old man has a stout son-in-law. Also, he owns a silent tongue and does not bicker with his friends. Come now, maiden, if you would see the king."

The girl smiled, and bowed both to Lupus and to her red-faced countryman. Then, with hands clasped before her and eyes demurely downcast, she followed the latter through the brilliant assemblage to the royal presence. Karl, though dictating a memorandum to Abbot Fulrad, the white-haired Keeper of the Great Seal, paused at once and nodded pleasantly to Hardrat.

"You bring a maiden from Hildegarde," he observed in a voice clear and strong but strangely shrill for so massive a body. "I am mistaken if it is not the daughter of our faithful Rudulf. I trust that she bears good tidings."

Fastrada bowed low before the dais. "Our gracious dame bade me bring word to your Majesty that her pain has eased. She enjoys good health again, though she put away the leech's drugs."

"As well--as well! I 'd wager a little fasting against the best of leeches. But, indeed, these are good tidings, and they come by the mouth of a fair emissary," replied Karl, his gaze lingering on the soft beauty of the girl's face and form. "It is a dusty path to the gates, and the herald of our queen should be spared the pains of walking it twice in a day. Let her delay her return. There will be a seat in our barge when we go to the noon-meal."

Fastrada bowed and withdrew, half awed, into the midst of the assemblage. Yet the admiration in the king's glance had by no means escaped her. Her cheeks glowed with pride at thought of the look and of his kindly tone. After royalty, the homage of lesser men lacked flavor, and the girl listened to the eager greetings of the court officials with an indifferent bearing. Of what value the blandishments of these sleek courtiers and petty counts when heroes such as the famous Roland and Hardrat were no less eager for her favor? And now the king himself had looked at her with far other than a cold eye, though Queen Hildegarde was yet held to be the most beautiful woman in the realm.

With true feminine perversity, the girl turned from all others and set about the task of pleasing a lank, dour-faced official, the only one in the pavilion who seemed altogether indifferent to her charms. The man met her advances with a sardonic smile, and gave a curt response to her greeting; while his pale-blue eyes turned away from her soft beauty to fix their cold stare on the approaching figure of Duke Lupus.

"The Merwing is ill named," he muttered in his beard, struck by the same thought that had prompted Hardrat's jest. "He should be called Fox, not Wolf,--a cunning fox! He will bear watching."

"What is my Lord Anselm pleased to say?" asked Fastrada. "He has the look which he wears when he sits on the judgment-seat, dooming the luckless offenders."

"Maidens should chatter and spin, and leave weightier matters to those who have wit," answered the judge, dryly.

"Alas, then, for the maidens, if all men agree with the Count of the Palace!" sighed Fastrada; and she drew back in mock sorrow.

Anselm paid no heed to the alluring play. His attention was fixed upon the Duke of the Vascons.

Lupus advanced with an arrogance that won him little favor among the proud Franks. But Karl smiled, and even extended his hand for the salute when the duke would have bent to kiss his knee.

"With joy we see again our faithful friend," he said. "Not satisfied with swearing allegiance the second time, he brings us needed supplies with a bountiful hand. It is well this fair Southland is held for us by so trusty a liegeman."

"My lord king is pleased to be gracious," replied Lupus, quickly. "If I have won his indulgence, I now beg leave to ask a favor."

"Speak. Anything I can rightfully give shall be allowed you."

"It is no small matter, your Majesty; the insolent Bishop of Rome has stricken the mitre from the head of my kinsman Thierry."

Karl started and frowned.

"Alter your asking, lord duke," he answered. "I cannot set aside so just a judgment. There were charges and a fair trial for the Bishop of Bordeaux. He has failed to clear himself on a single count; drunkenness, strife, licentiousness,--all were proved."

"Slander, sire!--malicious slander!" cried the duke, his passion overleaping all caution. "My kinsman is persecuted for his lineage! Few priests of his rank but wassail and brawl unrebuked. As for the third charge, strangest of all in a realm whose king--"

"Silence!" roared Karl; and he towered up on the dais like an angry lion. "Has the kinsman of Hunold and Waifre twice sworn allegiance to doubt the justice of his king and Holy Church? I, the king, sent Pope Hadrian command for the trial. It is enough that dukes and counts trample the common folk and wallow in the troughs of their sodden vices. At the least, I will scourge the swine from God's Church. By the King of Heaven! when I have swept the pagan Saracens into the sea I will cleanse the household of my kingdom,--from duke to deacon! Thierry has lost his mitre; let him repent and walk upright, lest worse come upon him."

Stunned, humiliated, livid with impotent anger, the haughty Merwing shrank back from before the son of Pepin, and hastened to quit the assemblage that had witnessed his shame. Most of the Franks met his black glances with ready frowns; but Hardrat, the Thuringian count, could not conceal his pleasure at the turn of events.

"All goes well!" he chuckled. "The fox is shrewdly nipped. He 'll stop at nothing now. Rage will melt all his frosty caution. The others are with us, heart and hand, and that missive to Saxon Land by this time should have rid us--"

The conclusion of the Thuringian's half-muttered words was lost in a terrific blare of trumpets and war-horns that sent the alarm ringing to every corner of the Frankish camp.

Within the pavilion all was instantly struggle and confusion. Swords flashed overhead, and the assemblage surged from side to side as the war-counts sought to push out from the press of officials and priests. But Karl the King walked swiftly through the parting crowd, his face serene, his sword unsheathed. The warriors rushed after him, weapon in hand.

CHAPTER V

What are ye, then, of armed men,

Mailed folk who the foaming keel

Have urged thus over the ocean ways,

Over water-ridges the ringed prow?

BEOWULF.

Most women at such a time would have cowered behind the empty throne; Fastrada sought to pass out with the war-counts. She was caught, however, in the press which closed behind them, and even with Abbot Fulrad's aid could not gain the entrance for some time. When at last the sturdy old Keeper of the Seal drew her into the open, the horns had ceased braying, and a strange hush lay upon the camp. But the river-banks were lined with armed men, and Fastrada saw hundreds of other warriors running to join them.

"What can it mean?" she exclaimed. "Have the Aquitanians revolted? Look how every man stares down the river."

"Let us go yonder to the knoll where the king stands. There the view is clear," suggested Fulrad.

"I see masts already,--five of them," exclaimed Fastrada, as they hurried forward. "Each bears a white shield at its peak. It cannot be they are Greek ships. They must be Frisian traders, or an embassy from Alfwold, King of Northumbria."

"Neither one nor the other, maiden," rejoined Fulrad. "Years since, in the days of Pepin, I saw the like,--once upon the Seine, and again upon the Rhine, in the Frisian Mark. It was there Karl fought his first battle,--a lad of twelve."

"But these ships--of what land are they? See how stately they surge up the river with their glittering prows; and hark to the oar-song of their crews,--a lay of the old gods! I 've heard it in the forest when no priest was near."

"Ay, maiden; these are heathen craft, and they bear warriors more terrible than the Saxon wolves. You've heard of Lord Otkar. These are his countrymen."

"Danes?"

"Truly; from Sigfrid's realm, or from Jutland, which is beyond. Otkar was of a land yet more distant. He told me much of the Norse folk; of their great wealth and fierce war-spirit. God grant that Wittikind the Westphalian lies quiet in Nordmannia and does not march back with the host of his wife's brother. The Saxons and Frisians are hard enough nuts to crack, without the Danes."

"But how come these heathen on the Garonne?"

"We shall soon learn," answered the abbot, pointing with his staff. "Here is the first ship abreast. Mark the mail-clad crew."

"The ship turns," observed Fastrada.

"And the others follow. They will moor before the king."

Even as Fulrad spoke, the oars of the longships rattled inboard, and the five beautiful craft glided toward the bank. They might have been dragons wheeling in salute to the royal standard. Spellbound by the sight, warriors and courtiers and king alike stood silently waiting while the stately prows swept inshore. First the leader and then, in quick succession, the four others ran aground, and the hush was broken by the thud of grapnels cast upon the bank. As the sterns of the vessels swung downstream with the current, a gangplank was thrust ashore from the prow of the leader.

The first to leap down the plank was a gallant young warrior in Frankish armor, at sight of whom the king cried out in astonishment: "Gerold!--with these Danes!"

"The Northmen come in peace, sire," observed Abbot Fulrad. "If not, how is it the queen's brother bears them company?"

"Peaceful or not, lord abbot," rejoined Hardrat, "these are insolent pagans to sing forbidden lays in the midst of a Christian host. Shall I not take horse, sire, and bring down the galleys from Casseneuil? Look, your Majesty! Count Roland follows Gerold; and he totters from recent wounds!"

But Karl made no answer. He was staring intently at the lithe warrior in shimmering mail who had leaped up to help Roland across the gangway.

"Ho, Fulrad," he called; "look close at the Dane count's war-gear, and call to mind that old Norse bear Otkar. His mail was the same in every point as this bright falcon's. Can they be kinsmen?"

"Old oak and young ash,--they 're little more alike, sire. But the lad will shortly tell us," remarked Fulrad, as Gerold hastened forward.

The queen's brother mounted the knoll, and knelt to kiss the extended hand of the king.

"Greeting, lad! You return in strange fellowship," remarked Karl, his gaze fixed upon the bright Northman, who was supporting Roland up the bank.

"They are shipmates whom I know your Majesty will gladly welcome," replied Gerold, with fervor. "Never have I seen such warriors! I fell in with them at Bordeaux."

"Bordeaux?"

"I journeyed to the Vascon burg from Fronsac, thinking that my lord would wish to know more of the new walls which Duke Lupus is building."

"Well done! But these Danes?"

"I can thank their count for a quick journey! He comes to you on a strange mission-- But let Roland speak, sire. He owes the Northman freedom and life."

"More, sire!--more!" cried Roland, as he sprang forward from the supporting arm of his companion.

The king met him halfway, and drew him up as he sought to kneel.

"You 're wounded, kinsman!" he exclaimed. "You have fought at sea! Where are your followers--and the child?"

"I have lost my henchmen, sire; but all else is well--thanks to Lord Olvir, my noble sword-brother."

"This Dane?"

"Ay, sire; leader of half a thousand sea-wolves,--the pick of the North. He has saved me from torture and the princess from shame."

"By my father's soul, he has earned the good-will of one who can repay! Stand forward, my bright Dane, that Karl the King may give you thanks."

At such a bidding from the lord of half Europe, most men would have run to kneel at the king's feet. Such, however, was not the manner of vikings, and Olvir Thorbiornson was not only a leader of vikings, but, throughout the heathen North, could have laid claim without dispute to a descent direct from Odin. Instead of hastening forward, with glowing face and ready bows, he advanced proudly erect, as one sea-king would meet another.

Karl and his lords gazed at the young heathen in wondering admiration, no less impressed by the grace and pride of his bearing than by his rich dress and the beauty of his sword and war-gear. Beside his lithe figure and dark, masterful face even Gerold of Bussen appeared rough and uncouth.

Olvir neither bowed nor knelt, but raised his shield overhead in salute, and returned Karl's gaze with the unflinching look of an equal. It was a novel meeting for the warrior-king, before whom even the wild Saxons trembled. He frowned and said shortly: "It would seem that the Danes are stiff of knee."

"Then set us in your battle-front, lord king," replied Olvir.

"Well answered!" cried Abbot Fulrad.

"You wish to join my standard, young Dane, and seek the post of danger?" said Karl, now smiling.

"Where else should a king's son stand? For this war the foster-son of Otkar Jotuntop seeks place with his sea-wolves in the fore of your host."

"Otkar the Dane!--you his fosterling?"

"And blood kinsman."

"Where, then, is the hero?"

"His ashes lie in the mound where he reared me."

"Dead?--that giant warrior! But he sent you to make peace with the foe whom without cause he sought so mightily to harm."

"No, by Thor," rejoined Olvir, his black eyes glittering. "To the end Otkar thought only of vengeance. He gave over the task into my hand. I sailed out of the North to harry your coasts with fire and steel."

"Saint Michael! you dare tell me that!" cried Karl, and his grey eyes flamed with anger at the Northman's audacity.

"My tale is not all told," said Olvir, unmoved.

"I have heard enough! You have slain Count Roland's henchmen, stolen my wares, and now you come to mock--"

"No, sire! no!" cried Roland, and he sprang before the Northman, who was turning haughtily away, his dark face no less angry than the king's. "Hold, brother! One word, sire! It was not he who slew my followers; he saved us from the clutches of Wittikind's man, a terrible Dane count, whom he slew in single combat. While I lay witless from my wounds, he granted the prayer of the little princess that we be brought to you; he won over the warriors of the Dane count to join his banner; yet more, he plighted brotherhood with me, after the old custom."

"As to your wares, Frank king," broke in Olvir, hotly, "bale and cask lie in my longships, untouched. Now I cast them ashore, and weigh anchor."

"No, by my sword; that you shall not!" cried Karl, and in a stride he was beside the young Northman. "Hold, kin of Otkar. I have done wrong; I will repay."

"Hold, brother, for my sake!" urged Roland, his arm about Olvir's shoulder.

The sea-king half turned, his nostrils quivering with passion, and stared fiercely about from the astonished Frank lords to their king. But before the look on Karl's grand face his anger broke and subsided as quickly as it had flared out.

"Have your will, lord king," he muttered. "I will listen, though that is not our custom in the North after words such as have been spoken here."

"Then I eat those words, my bold Dane. Wait; that is not enough! My hot anger has done you wrong. I will pay in full. Yet first, tell me why you sought vengeance against me,--you and Otkar. Why did your foster-father stir up strife between me and my brother Carolman? Why did he spur Desiderius, the weak Lombard, to war?"

Olvir's breast heaved, and his nostrils quivered; but he answered steadily: "It was thus, lord king: in your youth you laid an ambush near the Rhine mouth for a band of vikings."

"It was my first battle. The Danes had a famous hero for leader."

"He was my father."

"So--now I understand," muttered Karl, and his brows met in deep thought. "You have been generous, young count. Name what blood-fine you would have. I will pay it over without dispute."

"I do not come for wergild, lord king. While I thought you my father's slayer, nothing but blood could have paid for the wrong. And the debt is paid in blood; for before I slew that vile Dane, I learned from his own lips that he, who had betrayed my father, also was his bane,--that you sought to save the stricken hero."

"He thrust me aside; I was yet a child. I wish now that I had hung the blood-eager boar."

"Not so, king; else I might never have learned that I had no cause to hate you. I owe thanks to the braggart. But for his boasts, I doubt if I should have yielded to the little maid's entreaty."

"It was a Christian deed!" exclaimed Karl.

Olvir smiled: "Say rather, a Christly deed. I have read the runes of the White Christ; but, also, I have heard what Otkar had to say of your Christian priests and their flocks. By Thor! beneath the fleece, if Otkar spoke truth, they differ little from those whom you call heathen wolves."

"True--true! though the charge is bitter from the lips of a pagan. Yet Holy Church is the only fold, however much defiled by evil men. Already I have set about the cleansing of the sacred cloisters. Before I have ended that task, I hope that you and all your followers will have come within the pale."

"But now, lord king, all my men are sons of Thor and Odin; and I, like Otkar, trust neither in the old gods nor the new,--only in my own might. Can you welcome us so? I have heard how you force baptism upon the Saxons."

"As a nation of savage pagans, they menace my kingdom. I must bend them to Holy Church, or in time to come they will sweep across the Rhine and lay desolate the work I seek to upbuild. It is otherwise with your following, my Dane hawk. You are free to choose or reject Christ, as you are free to come and go. It is my trust that you will see the Truth and stay with me always."

"For this war, at least, we shall fight beneath your standard. Your foe will not easily break the shieldburg of my sea-wolves."

"That I can well believe if they are worthy of their leader."

"You shall view them now, lord king!" exclaimed Olvir, and, wheeling about, he sent a clear command ringing down the bank.

Hardly was the word uttered when from all five longships the armed crews poured overboard and swarmed up the shore like a storming party. So fierce, indeed, was their rush that many of the Frankish warriors mistook it for a real attack. When three or four counts, with Hardrat at their head, raised the cry of treachery, a thousand loyal men ran, shouting, to throw themselves between their king and the heathen.

But Karl sprang before his warriors, with angry commands to halt, and the movement was checked as suddenly as it had started. Yet, prompt as was the king's action, there was one sword which swung before he could utter his first command.

The moment Hardrat saw the Franks come running, he ceased his shouts and wheeled upon Olvir, with upraised sword, thinking to cut him down unawares. He might easier have surprised a hungry leopard. Before the blow could fall, the Northman had thrust Roland out of danger and leaped in under the descending blade. His arms closed about the burly Thuringian like steel bands. There was no time given Hardrat to break loose or to strike. He was flung up bodily and cast headlong over Olvir's shoulder.

The Thuringian's astonishment was exceeded only by his rage. Half stunned, he sat up, staring wide-eyed, and groped for his sword-hilt. But Olvir caught up the weapon, and, snapping the broad blade on his knee, tossed the fragments back to their owner with careless scorn.

"Ho! the red pig has a tumble!" roared Liutrad, at the head of the vikings, and the grim warriors burst into jeering laughter.

"Saint Michael! who jests at so ill a time?" demanded Karl; and he wheeled about, his face flushed, and his great figure quivering with anger.

Olvir answered him, smiling, "My sea-wolves, lord king. This fair-haired hero and I have played a merry game behind your back."

"A game for which Hardrat should hang, sire!" exclaimed Roland. "He sought to cut down Count Olvir unawares."

The angry flush on the king's face deepened, and he confronted Hardrat with a look before which the stout warrior visibly trembled.

"Well for you, Thuringian, your sword did no harm!" he cried. "Lightly as the young hero takes it, I am yet minded to ride you on the nearest tree."

"Forgive the deed, sire! I was over-hasty,--I thought the heathen were about to attack your Majesty," stammered Hardrat.

"We will allow the plea; the thought was loyal, however ill-advised. Your broken sword shall be the punishment for your rashness."

Had Karl been less keenly intent on the movements of the vikings, the affair might not have passed so lightly for the Thuringian. But as Olvir made no demand for redress, the king turned away, to watch with a kindling eye the manoeuvres of the Northmen.

At the first threat of attack, those members of the crews already ashore had lined up so as to present to the menacing Franks an unbroken wall of shields. Then their close ranks formed swiftly in a steel-faced wedge, with the towering figure of Floki the Crane at the point. Behind him stood Liutrad Erlingson with the sea-king's banner, while in the centre of the wedge the poorer armed Danes surrounded the Frisian sailors and Rothada. The discipline was perfect. Not even at the moment of wildest flurry, when the Franks were charging to the attack, had a single viking spear been cast or bow been drawn.

The king's powerful face glowed with pleasure and admiration at sight of such warriors.

"By my sword!" he swore, "this is a fair day for me! Never before has such a band been seen south of the Rhine."

"Or north of it, lord king," added Olvir. "All the champions among the Trondir sailed with me, and with them many other great warriors from Norway and Sweden; nor did Hroar number cowards in his crews."

"They may well be named the pick of the North. I should search all my kingdom to find their like. Would that their leader had pledged himself to me for a lifetime!"

The speaker's eyes glowed, and he laid a hand on Olvir's shoulder, as though eager to take full possession of such a liegeman. The Northman would have shrunk from the familiar touch, had he not perceived the earnest friendliness of the king's look. But his reply only half satisfied the great Frank.

"The Norns weave the future," he said. "When this war is ended I may yet wish to remain your man. But I cannot speak for my followers. They are free vikings."

"If you stay, they will stay. And now they shall not find me lacking in gifts. To begin, I name as yours all the wares which you saved from the Frisian ship. But did I not see women in the midst of your warriors? Where is the daughter of Himiltrude?"

Olvir turned and beckoned to his followers.

"The king awaits his daughter," he called. "Bring forward the little vala."

"She comes," answered Floki; and the wedge behind him split open to the centre.

When Rothada advanced to the front, with her broad-shouldered Frisian maid, Floki and Liutrad seated her on a shield between them and moved forward at a swinging stride.

"Farewell to our vala!" called out an old berserk, as he took the leader's post at the point of the wedge.

"Farewell! Come again to us soon, little maid!" shouted the vikings.

The girl waved her hand to the grim heathen, who in all things had honored her as they would have honored a daughter of their own kings. She could almost have wished to stay with them. But it was not to be. Even now the king, her father, awaited her,--that grand crowned warrior. Would he be kind to her, the daughter of the wife whom he had thrust aside so causelessly to wed the Lombard princess? Half hoping, half dismayed, the girl clasped her hands and gazed at her father with startled eyes.

Karl stared in wonder at the two viking leaders and the maiden they bore between them. Could this be Himiltrude's daughter,--a child of the cloisters,--this little heathen princess, clad in rarest furs and loaded down with glittering ornaments?

But the moment of doubt was brief. As the saluting vikings placed the girl before her father and drew back, she raised her head, which fear had caused her to droop, and looked up at him again with wide-open, appealing eyes.

"Himiltrude!" he cried, and he drew the trembling girl into his arms.

"All's well with the maiden," muttered Floki.

"All is well," repeated Olvir, and he waved the steersmen back to the wedge.

CHAPTER VI

He who alone there was deemed best of all,

The War-lord of the Danes, well worthy of men.

HEL-RIDE OF BRYNHILD.

While Floki and Liutrad returned to their posts, their leader sprang again to where Roland stood leaning upon Gerold's shoulder.

"You 're weary, sword-brother," he exclaimed. "Come with me--"

"Wait, friend," replied Roland. "Yonder is the maiden of whom I spoke."

"Fastrada--?"

"She stands apart with Count Hardrat, whom you threw, and Lupus, Duke of the Vascons."

"Lead on. I am eager to know the maiden who has so fast bound a warrior's heart," replied Olvir, smiling.

Gerold glanced about at the king. "We 're free to go," he said. "Our lord king has thought only for the princess."

Roland nodded impatiently and advanced at once, a hand on the shoulder of either friend. But the gaunt figure of Count Anselm blocked the way.

"Stay a little, Roland," he said. "Here are two who fought both with and against Otkar the Dane, and would grip hands with his foster-son."

"Both as friends and as foes, my kinsman loved the high lords of King Karl," replied Olvir.

The judge's severe face softened as Olvir clasped his bony hand, and he smiled as he turned with him to the serene-faced churchman.

"Here, hero," he said, "is one of the shepherds of the Christian fold who is neither wolf nor boar."

"I have eyes," replied Olvir, simply. "When I see a good man, I know him."

"'There is none good save God,'" quoted the abbot, piously; but he smiled at the sincerity in the young Northman's look and tone.

"'Be ye perfect even as God is perfect,'" quoted Olvir, in turn.

The Franks stared in amazement.

"By all the saints!" cried Anselm; "the lad knows Holy Writ,--a heathen monk!"

"We shall make of him a Christian layman, at the least," rejoined Fulrad, his broad, kindly face aglow.

"Best leave me heathen," said Olvir. "If I become anything else, it will be an Arian, whom, according to Otkar, you name heretic, and hold to be more accursed than the unbelievers."

"We will trust the grace of our Lord Christ to lead you into the true fold," replied Fulrad.

"Meantime, Roland waits to greet his may," suggested Gerold.

All smiled at the hint, and the two high councillors hastened to make way for the lover, with hearty God-speeds.

The approach of the three friends had by no means passed unobserved by the queen's maiden; and when presently they stood before her, there was an added depth of color in her cheeks, and her bosom rose and fell to a quickened heart-beat. While the great Count Roland bent to kiss her hand, she stared with glowing eyes at the sea-king. Here was a warrior such as must have been that grand old Saracen,--a hero with a soul of fire, proud as a king, who would laugh at death as at a jest.

Unable to meet the piercing brightness of Olvir's black eyes, she lowered her gaze and bowed as she had bowed to the king. Many a lord had gazed at her with the same admiring look, but never one who had roused a response in her own heart strong enough to over-ride her cool and purposeful coquetry. The blue tints in her eyes deepened, and she stood thrilling with a delicious fear. Only by a strong effort did she succeed in raising her lashes to meet the expected love-message in the stranger's eyes. To her astonishment and chagrin, the calm, full gaze that met her glance told only of frank admiration.

Not that Olvir was unmoved. He had seen many beautiful maidens among the blond daughters of the Northern earls and bondir, but never one whose loveliness was as the loveliness of this dark daughter of Thuringia. Half bewildered, he drank in her rich beauty with eager delight. Yet he did not forget that this was the maiden whom his sword-brother loved.

"So I stand before the daughter of the brave Count Rudulf," he said quietly. "No longer, Roland, do I wonder that the maiden holds your heart in leash. I trust that she will accept this trinket, which I offer in token of friendship."

Great as had been Fastrada's disappointment, she took with eagerness the gold brooch which Olvir unclasped from his cloak. At the touch of his fingers she blushed rosier than before.

"A gift with true friendship is doubly gracious," she murmured.

"I could not give less to the maiden whom my brother loves," answered Olvir, and he drew Roland to his side.

"Satan seize the pagan!" muttered Duke Lupus. "He woos the girl openly for his friend."

"More harm should he speak for himself," replied Count Hardrat. "The girl's eye is caught by his glitter. We must break in on the talk. Bid him and the counts to your feast. I have a plot in mind."

"I trust to your counsel," replied Lupus, and he thrust himself half between Fastrada and Olvir.

"Greeting, lord count," he said. "I am Lupus, Duke of Vasconia, a child of kings."

"Greeting, lord duke," replied Olvir, coldly. "I am Olvir Thorbiornson, heir to the King of Lade."

"I gladly welcome a king's son to my south country. In two days I give a feast to our Lord Karl. I trust that you will be present with your companions."

"I give thanks. I will come, and so, doubtless, will my friends."

"Farewell, then, for a time," said Lupus. Unable to witness any longer Fastrada's preference for the new-comers, he bowed to the party and turned away, dragging with him the unwilling Hardrat.

As Fastrada sought to catch again the eye of the perverse stranger, a barge came sweeping downstream and headed in for a small wharf, just above the viking ships. As the craft made fast to the landing, the high-pitched imperious voice of Karl rang out above the loud talk of his retainers: "Lord Olvir! Where is Lord Olvir?"

Olvir glanced at Roland, and hesitated. But Fastrada said quickly: "Go! Gerold and I will see Count Roland aboard the barge."

As the Northman drew near, Karl smiled and hailed him with more friendliness than ever in his voice: "Here comes my Dane hawk,--truly, a king's son, no less in deed than in bearing! But you are no spokesman, Olvir. This little maid has told in full how you saved herself and my sister's son from the savage Hroar, and, at her bidding, loosed the thrall-bonds of the Frisians."

"That was the doing of Floki, lord king,--yonder tall man at the fore of my crews. In past years he had been a sword-brother to the Frisian shipmaster, and so had the disposal both of ship and thralls. They should all have burned together, had not this little vala--this little seeress--offered him her head-ring for ransom."

"Yet she still wears the circlet."

"There are few men more grim than Floki the Crane; but he is no greedy trader. When he yielded to the maiden's wish it was not to rob her glossy tresses of their ring. As to the rest, I 'll not say that the fate of any in the trade-ship would have been easy to bear had Hroar prospered."

"Truly so! You call yourself an unbeliever; but surely some saint guided your ships into the Seine Mouth."

"No saint steered Hroar's keels, but a traitor's evil counsel. Roland can better tell you how the Dane boar made boast of tidings from your hall. There are false hearts near your high-seat, lord king. Had they their will, even now this child would be grinding meal in Nordmannia, and Roland waiting his doom on Thor's Stone."

Karl pressed his daughter to him with a quick movement.

"Why should they seek to harm my little cloister-dove?" he demanded.

"Has Wittikind the Saxon no cause to strike at the heart of the Frank king?"

"However much a rebel and traitor, the Westphalian is not so mean as to seek vengeance in the thraldom of a maid-child."

"Yet what if he sought to have a hostage in safe keeping, should he venture again Rhineward and be taken thrall? What better safeguard then than the first-born child of King Karl--even though that child be a daughter?"

"My sword! a shrewd guess. Would to Heaven the crafty Saxon had won his seven feet of ground! And yet, he is a brave man, fighting for his fatherland. Rather do I curse the traitors in my hall."

The king looked about at the surrounding lords, his grey eyes aflame. But their glance rested on none whom he had cause to doubt, and his genial humor quickly returned.

"My thanks for your warning, Dane hawk. I shall bear it in mind. And now, if such is your wish, you will pledge yourself my man for this war."

"I stand ready to pledge myself, lord king; but, man or not, I am a king's son, and will not bend knee to any one, living or dead."

"Be assured. I owe you too much to hold to the knee-kissing. You shall be to me as the son of a brother king, come to aid me for a season,--many seasons, I hope."

Fairly overcome by such an answer from the ruler of half Europe, Olvir at once clasped his hands together and placed them between the king's.

"Witness all," he called aloud; "now do I, Olvir, son of Thorbiorn, pledge myself loyal man to Karl, King of the Franks, so long as he wars upon the Saracen folk."

"It is well, my Dane hawk," replied the king, instantly releasing his clasp. "I now have a bird of mettle to fly at the swart pagans,--ay, and a wolf-pack to follow him. Saint Michael! those are stout heroes! With all your birth and spirit, lad, I wonder to see such warriors under the banner of a count so young and slight."

"There's no cause to wonder, lord king. In all my following stands no man to outmatch me in weapon-play, in running, or in swimming. Of runes I know all that Otkar knew, and that is not little. In his wander-years he gathered many writings,--Greek and Roman and Arabic. Each and all, I copied them on parchment of my own make when, a child, I dwelt outlaw with my kinsman in the mound of my father's father."

"In the mound! How came you to dwell in a tomb?"

Olvir half frowned, and looked at his questioner with a sombre light in his dark eyes. But then Rothada's upturned face met his gaze. At once his brow cleared, and he answered with no trace of the bitterness which had welled up from his heart,--

"It was thus, lord king. When tidings of Thorbiorn's death came north, my mother, the emir's daughter, died in her bed; and while they bound on her hel-shoes, I was laid, an unsprinkled babe, at the feet of Skuli, my father's brother. But he would not take me up. He bade them bear me out upon the fell-side. Then Otkar slew many of Skuli's men, and would have slain Skuli, had he not fled. When Otkar stood alone in Trondheim Hall, he took me up and bore me by sea, through darkness and storm, to the wife of Koll the Outlaw. But Otkar was himself outlawed for the slaying, and, when a winter was gone, he brought me to Starkad's grave-mound, where he had made himself a dwelling. Most daring of all his deeds was that breaking of his uncle's mound, for not even he might have matched the Hero of Bravallahede. Yet the fearless champion made his abode with the ashes of the king, on the wild cliffs; and there he reared me, his fosterling, training me in all games of skill and in runes of many tongues, until my fourteenth year. It was a hard training, for Otkar tried me in all things to the utmost of my strength."

"Even as Sigmund tried Sinfiotli."

"Truly so, lord king, and with like purpose. He intended that I should hurl Skuli from the high-seat of Lade, and then aid him to avenge my father."

"God alone could have stayed the crafty grey bear from his purpose! You were not with him when he came to the court of Carloman, my brother."

"The Norns--or your God--willed otherwise; for Skuli, my uncle, stepped into the shoe with me, and so, though lawful heir, I am not yet on the high-seat of Lade. Otkar was still in outlawry, and by our compact with Skuli I could not join him when he fared south to pay what we wrongly thought to be the greater of the blood-debts. But my training was not wasted. With Floki yonder, I swept the Dane shores for the traitor Hroar, and the bairn whose shield could ward a half-stroke of Otkar's axe proved the bane of many a champion. Though Otkar met his fate before vengeance was done, the sword which he whetted has at last sought out the murderer and paid the blood-debt of my father."

Karl gazed down into the sternly joyful face of the young sea-king.

"No more do I wonder that you lead men," he exclaimed. "It is a fair day which brings me such a liegeman!"

"Not the day should be praised, lord king, but this little maiden."

"She's very near my heart, Olvir, and I bear her to one who will greet her with a mother's love. The barge waits, and I am eager to place the child in Hildegarde's arms. Farewell until to-morrow. Eggihard, my steward, has gone to choose your camp. You have only to sail a few bowshots downstream. Eggihard will see to it that you receive food and drink as you may need."

"I give thanks, lord king," answered Olvir, and, stooping, he kissed Rothada on the forehead.

"Farewell, Earl Olvir!" cried the girl, in a merry voice; and, clasping the hand of her father, she turned away down the river-bank. Olvir's face softened as he watched them go,--the mighty King of the Franks and Lombards hand in hand with the little convent maiden. His eyes glistened as he saw how Karl bent to caress the child's tresses. Truly, here was a royal friend,--a hero whom even the Blood of Odin might serve with honor.

Fastrada sat among the war-counts chosen to accompany the king, with Roland between herself and Gerold. As Olvir looked from the king to his wounded foster-brother, his glance chanced to fall upon the queen's maiden. He turned quickly away, then looked again. After all, so long as he did not give way to desire, was there any reason why he should not enjoy the maiden's beauty? For what purpose was sight given but to see?

Silent and motionless as a statue, he stood gazing after the barge, until the bony hand of Floki the Crane fell upon his shoulder.

"You look over-closely at the dark maiden, earl," he said bluntly.

Olvir frowned, but answered coldly, "Be assured. My sword-brother loves the maiden."

"The more cause to heed me. Listen, son of Thorbiorn. The gerfalcon should fly high. Were Otkar here with his grey wit, I know what quarry he would name for your love quest,--no common bride--"

"What! that child? You 're mad--"

"Not I. If you but use shrewdly your nimble wit, your wedding-seat shall be on the bench of a world-king. As to the maiden, she is an opening bud, whose blossom will prove far fairer than that slant-eyed werwolf."

"Werwolf!"

"Ay," went on Floki, unchecked by the hissing menace in his earl's voice; "I am not blind. That maiden's lips are red as blood; and if ever I saw wolf's eyes in human being--"

Olvir burst into hearty laughter.

"Ho, Floki, you 're dogwise!" he cried. "Not even our little vala owns milder eyes or purer look than my sword-brother's may. Go now; take the ships downstream to the camp where the king's steward waits our coming. I go afoot."

Floki glowered down upon his earl, a wry look on his long, sharp face.

"Good mead in a hoopless cask,--wise words in a loath ear," he croaked; and turning on his heel, he stalked back to the viking wedge.

A word sent the crews leaping aboard their ships, and quickly all five craft were headed downstream.

CHAPTER VII

As he sat on the high-seat,

That man of the Southland.

SONG OF ATLI.

Left alone on the knoll, Olvir turned his gaze back to the now distant barge, and watched it musingly until it disappeared beyond a clump of woods. Floki's warning had moved him more than he had cared to acknowledge. Though far from being as profound as had been Otkar, the man was possessed of exceptional shrewdness, and the knowledge of this now compelled the young sea-king to pause and ponder his words. Could they be true? He smiled at the absurdity of the question. But then he remembered the noble Frank whom he had chosen for foster-brother, and the smile left his face. However pure and innocent, what was this maiden to him?

"It is I who am dogwise, not Floki," he muttered, and he turned his back on Casseneuil.

Within a bow-shot of the king's pavilion he came upon Count Hardrat, and his quick eye noted that the man's first impulse was to avoid him. But as the Northman approached, the Thuringian advanced to meet him.

"I would make my peace," he said with a gruff show of cordiality. "Heroes should not bear malice,--and more, you had the best of it."

"Say no more of the wrangle," replied Olvir, quickly. "I heard your name, but it slips my memory."

"Hardrat, a count of Thuringia,--count of a little shire, when I should hold the Sorb Mark, if right were done me," grumbled the Thuringian. "But old Rudulf has a pretty daughter in the king's hall; and when was Karl ever known--"

Olvir turned upon the speaker, his eyes ablaze.

"How!" he demanded; "do you say anything against the maiden?"

The Thuringian recoiled as though struck.

"I--I--no!" he stammered.

"Then ward your tongue."

The count sought to meet his gaze, but failed.

"My lord Dane," he protested half sullenly, "are you not over-hasty? Surely, to speak without offence of a maiden whom you have met but once--"

"To me she is as a sister. She is all but betrothed to my foster-brother. But no more. I mistook your tone. And now I should hold it a favor to be told whose are yonder tents. They differ from all others I see about."

"Well they may. It is the camp of the Saracen envoys,--Al Arabi and--"

"Al Arabi--Al Arabi! How else is he called?"

"He is named after the wise King of the Hebrews, though his people give it a strange sound,--Sul--Suleyman."

"Thor smite me!" cried Olvir, his eyes glittering. "My thanks for the word. Farewell, earl."

Before the astonished count could answer, the Northman was walking swiftly toward the Saracen camp. Very soon he came to an open-fronted pavilion, in whose recess a venerable figure reclined on a low divan, droning out a passage of the Koran. Olvir halted a moment to stare at the patriarch, then stepped quietly within the entrance.

"Peace be with you, O emir," he said in Arabic.

"And with you peace," answered the Saracen, as he lifted his eyes. Their hawk-like glance rested wonderingly upon the bright figure of the Northman; but then it was drawn by the glow of the great ruby on the pommel of Al-hatif, and in an instant the Arab's wonder had given place to fury.

"Dog of a kaffir!" he cried, and he leaped to his feet. A taboret, set with dishes, stood before him. Spurning it aside, he advanced with a rush, till his claw-like hands threatened the smooth cheek of the Northman.

"Al-hatif! Al-hatif! The sword of the Prophet!" he shrieked. "What kaffir dog bears the khalif's gift? Eblis take the thief! May his arm wither--"

"Stay!" commanded Olvir. "Would you curse your own blood?"

The Arab paused, transfixed, and Olvir gazed unwavering into his glaring eyes. A dozen or more Moslems, weapons in hand, came flocking about the pavilion, drawn by the outcry of their sheik. But Olvir, heedless of their bared scimetars, continued gravely: "Many winters, O sheik, have whitened the mountains of Armenia since my father and Otkar, whom you called El Jinni, gave oath to you and left you lying bound on the river's bank. Both Thorbiorn and his bride, who was my mother, long since passed over the bridge of the dead, and El Jinni has now followed; but the oath has ever been kept. None other than your blood has borne the khalif's gift."

The sheik made no reply. He was gazing searchingly into Olvir's dark face, his own stern features softened by a look of deepest yearning. His doubts were soon ended. With joy as impetuous and unmeasured as had been his anger, he sprang forward and seized the young man in his arms.

"Son of Gulnare! Seed of my House!" he cried. "Allah is good! You come to cheer my age with your youth and beauty."

Olvir reverently returned the embrace of his mother's father, but answered quickly and with decision: "Deny not the justice of Allah, O sheik! Into the North He sent my mother,--and I am a son of the North. While this war lasts we shall together fight the Omyyad beneath your black banners. Afterwards I must return here among the Afranj, if not to my father's people."

"Allah's will be done! We shall see when the time is at hand. Now, at least, you will eat my salt and abide with me this night."

"Be it as you desire. Yet, first, I would see to my men."

"Go; but return quickly. My eyes yearn to feast upon the son of my daughter."

Reluctantly the sheik's arms released their clasp, and Olvir darted away along the river-bank. Al Arabi, with a curt command to his swarthy followers to withdraw, stood gazing after his grandson until he vanished behind a group of booths.

"Allah be praised this day!" he murmured fervently as he returned to his cushioned seat. "Kasim, my son-in-law, is a thorn in the flesh; but this bright child of Gulnare renews my youth. His eye is as the soaring falcon's; his step as the fleet gazelle's."

Nor was the sheik's praise unmerited. No runner in the Frankish camp could have covered the mile downstream and back with near the swiftness of the young Northman; yet when he stood again at the door of the pavilion and stepped in upon the costly Persian rugs, he betrayed no other signs of the race than a slight flush in his dark cheeks and an added depth of breathing.

"By the Beard!" exclaimed Al Arabi; "as Zora among coursers, so is the son of Gulnare among runners."

"I have run down the grey wolf in fair chase," replied Olvir, simply, and at the beckoning gesture of the sheik, he seated himself beside the old man in the same Oriental posture. Al Arabi smiled and clapped his hands. Almost immediately an Arab attendant, in loose shirt and baggy trousers, appeared at the entrance and salaamed to the ground.

"Bring food," said Al Arabi.

The man salaamed again and sprang away. As he disappeared, Olvir turned gravely to the sheik.

"What says the Prophet, O kinsman?--'Better is it to do justice than to sit at meat.' Before I taste your salt, it is well that right should be done between us. It seems to me just that I should now return to my mother's father the sword which my father took by force. Here, then, is Al-hatif. I restore it willingly, though I cannot say that the deed is a joyful one."

Olvir was not long kept waiting to see how Al Arabi would meet this act of generous pride. With a quick movement the old Moslem seized the sword and sprang to his feet. The beautiful blade whipped from its sheath and flashed around the sheik's head in bright circles.

"Allah acbar!" he cried. "The sword of the Prophet returns! Once again my hand grasps the khalif's gift!"

Olvir turned his head away, unable longer to hide his anguish at the loss of the sword. He thought of the day in Starkad's mound, when Otkar first put the coveted plaything in his childish hands. Since then it had never lain beyond his reach, night or day, and now--!

In the midst of his rejoicing, Al Arabi paused and turned his head to glance at his grandson. A moment later sword and scabbard were lying across Olvir's feet.

"Look, my son!" cried the old man. "The khalif's gift is my gift. For a little the light of the blade blinded me. But how could I take from my daughter's son the only inheritance she left him? Once the sword was forced from my grasp; now my heart rejoices to part with it to the son of Gulnare."

Olvir sought to answer, but the words choked in his throat. An eye far less keen than the sheik's, however, could have seen the gratitude which lighted the young viking's face. His eyes were shining through a mist of tears. Al Arabi gravely seated himself beside his grandson, and, sheathing the sword, clasped it once more to Olvir's belt.

The first attendant and another now entered the tent, bearing between them a taboret set with food. The second attendant withdrew at once; but his fellow waited for further orders.

"Where is Vali Kasim?" asked Al Arabi.

"He goes with the herd to the river, O sheik."

"When they return, bid him come this way."

The man bowed and slipped noiselessly away, while the host, having first tasted each dish on the table, urged his guest to eat. He had no need to repeat the bidding. Olvir's youth and health would have given relish to the plainest fare, and the mutton stew was very savory. When the last drop of gravy had been sopped up, Olvir turned with good-will to the dates and candied fruit, which the sheik was attacking with the zest of an Oriental. Hearty, however, as was the younger man's appetite, his palate, unaccustomed to such confections, soon cloyed with their spicy sweetness. Al Arabi gravely shook his head at this sign of foreign taste, and then he smiled in recollection of the past.

"It is clear that you were not raised in the land of the faithful, son of my daughter," he observed. "You lack the sweet tooth."

"I will not turn from honey in the comb; but these sweets--"

"The spices of the Far East. You will in time become used to their flavor," explained the sheik, and he held up a slice of candied pomegranate between thumb and finger. But the sweetmeat did not reach his mouth. Struck by a sudden thought, he dropped the titbit to clutch Olvir's shoulder. His eyes were ablaze with intense feeling.

"Hei, by the Prophet's Beard, you shall in truth learn the taste of Moslem sweets! Who is Kasim, that he should stand first with the Beni Al Abbas? My word is yet weightiest in the council of the sheiks. When this lion of the Afranj has broken the might of that dog Abd-er-Rahman, my daughter's son--my daughter's son shall be Emir of Andalus!"

Olvir's cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkled at the alluring prospect; but his clear intellect was quick to perceive the wildness of the scheme.

"Hearken a little, father of my mother," He said. "I give thanks for the good thought; but how can such be? Did Allah uprear me a kaffir, that I might rule over the faithful?"

"The mission of Islam is to bring unbelievers into the faith."

"I hold to no faith but my own. No priest or prophet shall set the bounds of my thought. I see much good in the words of the Son of Mary; but little has Mohammed added to them. I believe that God is in all men alike, and that each man is good, not according as he is Moslem or Jew, Christian or heathen, but as he does in his deeds the will of the Spirit within him. But enough! I give you pain."

"Hei! you speak in a strange tongue, son of Gulnare. Yet the tongue can be bridled. You believe in the One God. For the rest, there need be--"

"Stay, father. What is the creed of Islam, which the proselyte must cry aloud? No; it cannot be. Even my hair would betray me."

"Bismillah! The All-powerful One will disclose his decrees in due time. If yours is the Afranj hair, is not Abd-er-Rahman's the Afranj eye? 'Blue of eye, and foul of face,' the saying is against the Omyyad; but there is nothing in men's mouths against hair of golden flame. We shall see what Allah has decreed. Now tell me how you come here to the host of the Sultan Karolah; tell me of my Gulnare, and of your life in the frozen North."

Olvir bowed; but he had hardly made a beginning of the tale of how Thorbiorn Viking brought home his elf bride from the Land of the Asiamen, when he was interrupted by the sound of quick hoof-beats, and a score of beautiful horses, wine-red in color, came crowding around the front of the tent. As Olvir stopped short with a cry of delight, Al Arabi smiled and lifted his hand. A mare at once pushed from among her companions and advanced quietly into the tent, the tip of her flowing tail brushing the costly rugs, upon which she planted her small hoofs with the daintiness of a woman. Al Arabi held out for her a stoned date, and as she nibbled at it he stroked her bony cheek.

"So, Zora," he said, "you must have your sweetmeats, like all women. But I do not begrudge them to my swift one. You look at the guest, daughter of Rustem. It is well. He is not such a one as these Afranj jinn, who must get them to battle or the chase on ox-like steeds. No, Wind-racer; this is one with whom you could course the gazelle from dawn even to sunset. Look closely at the young man, for he is of the Household,--he is the Heir."

Zora stretched out her graceful neck to nuzzle the Heir's strange attire with the tip of her projecting lip. The attention was appreciated at its full value. Never before had Olvir seen the like of this beautiful mare, and her friendliness greatly pleased him. He was stroking the broad forehead between her soft black eyes when the younger Saracen envoy entered the tent.

Kasim did not wait to examine the guest, but perceiving at the first glance that the stranger's dress was not of Saracen fashion, he exclaimed petulantly: "How now, father of my bride; has your dowar become a lounging-place for kaffirs? I did not look to find you breaking bread with an Afranj dog."

Great was the vali's surprise when the despised kaffir answered him in his own tongue: "Friend, what says the wise king, the emir's namesake?--'Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is accounted wise; and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding.'"

Though not a little humiliated by the apt rebuke, Kasim advanced closer to examine the guest with his blinking gaze. If his thought was to strike fear into the heart of the stranger by the fierceness of his look, he was never so mistaken. Olvir met him with a gaze so steady and so full of calm indifference that the Saracen, to cover the sudden confusion which fell upon him, shifted his glance to the stranger's dress.

The body armor of the guest was familiar to his sight; for only in its rich finish and in the threefold thickness of its mesh did it differ from his own. Yet it had an odd appearance, worn with the cross-thonged stockings, close breeches, and fur-trimmed cloak of the Norse dress. And, notwithstanding the ruddy yellow hair of the son of Gulnare, never had Kasim Ibn Yusuf seen a warrior who in figure, face, and bearing so nearly approached the Arab ideal of princeliness and beauty.

"May it please the father of my sultana to make known the guest who sits at meat with him," he said.

Al Arabi rose, and Olvir imitated the movement. When both were standing, the sheik laid his hand on Olvir's shoulder, and answered the vali: "You have heard of El Jinni, Ibn Yusuf,--that Samson of the Far North--"

"I have heard of El Jinni," retorted Kasim. "So this is his son. Had another than yourself told me that you would hold friendship with any kin of the robber who despoiled your city and bore off your daughter, I should name the teller a liar."

"Do not marvel, Ibn Yusuf. This is not the son of El Jinni, but the son of that daughter,--my Gulnare. Rejoice with me, Kasim! The lost is found! Come forward and greet your kinsman."

At the appeal, which was half a command, Kasim advanced and embraced Olvir, muttering formal words of pleasure. His protestations of friendship did not, however, deceive the young Northman. He read the hostility in the Arab's eyes, and met the feigned warmth of his greeting with cold disdain.

"You bear a sword of price, kinsman," remarked the vali, as the glow of the great ruby on Al-hatif's hilt caught his eye.

"It is a sword beyond price," answered Olvir. "The Prophet himself once bore it. When your wife's father aided Khalif Abdullah to overthrow the House of Omar, the khalif did more than make him Emir of Kars,--he gave to him Al-hatif."

"Al-hatif!" cried Kasim; "the Prophet's sword in the hand of an unbeliever!"

"I believe in the One God," replied Olvir. "There is good in all faiths. I accept the Truth wherever I find it; the error I reject."

The vali threw out his hands in pious horror.

"La I'laha ilia Allah; Mohammed resoul Allah!" he cried. "Within Islam alone is salvation."

"So say the Jews; so say the Christians; and so say the Magians,--each for his own creed," retorted Olvir.

Kasim frowned and shook his fist at the unbeliever, in sudden heat.

"What saying's this?" he exclaimed. "Who dares name the creeds of kaffir dogs in the same breath with the true faith? Who--"

"Enough, vali!" commanded Al Arabi. "There shall be no railing and contention in my House. The son of Gulnare does not come to bring strife, but to strengthen our hands in the struggle against Abd-er-Rahman. You saw his warriors in the strange ships which rowed past before our dowar. When Karolah comes south, with him will march your kinsman and his steel-clad warriors, to fight beneath our banners. And now, that the son of Gulnare may not find the way toilsome, I give him the choicest of my desert-fliers. The daughter of Rustem is fitting gift to the son of Gulnare."

"Zora!" stammered Kasim,--"Zora!"

"I have spoken. Lead the herd away, and make ready full equipment, that the fleet one may come to her master with adornment worthy of her lineage."

With his hand clutched convulsively in Zora's flowing mane, Kasim led her from the tent without a word.

Al Arabi watched his departure with a frown of displeasure, his lean hand tugging at his beard.

"He goes in anger," he muttered.

"I fear I bring you sorrow, father," said Olvir. "A house divided against itself cannot stand."

"The Son of Mary spoke truth. Yet be at peace. It is not you who bring contention to my House. Kasim Ibn Yusuf is a man of unruly spirit. He has long been a thorn in my flesh. Your coming has rejoiced my soul."

"Allah grant it may never be otherwise!" responded Olvir.

"Amin--amin!" said Al Arabi; and motioning Olvir to resume his seat, he added: "Now, my son, tell me fully of your mother and of your fearful uprearing by El Jinni in the tomb."

CHAPTER VIII

Unwound from arm winding-rings

Of Kaiser gold wrought--

LAY OF HILDEBRAND.

The seed of gold

Sowed the swan-bright woman,

Rings of red-gold.

SONG OF ATLI.

Morning put an end to Sheik Suleyman's hospitality. Shortly after sunrise his retainers began striking the tents of the dowar, in preparation for the journey back across the Pyrenees. To ferry the envoys over the Garonne, Olvir manned one of his longships, and made ready to embark with his new-found kinsmen. His purpose was to accompany the sheik half a day on the march, as a mark of the respect and affection due his mother's father. He also had in view the return to the Garonne, when, unhampered by companions, he could test the speed of the beautiful red mare.

At the last moment, however, as Zora was being led aboard ship, young Gerold of Busson came galloping down the bank, and hailed the Norse chief loudly: "Hold, Lord Olvir! The king bids you to his presence."

Olvir turned, frowning, to the sheik, who stood with Kasim in the vessel's stern.

"Eblis!" he exclaimed in Arabic. "Am I a hound, to leap to another's bidding? Karolah sends command for my presence. Let him command; I go with you."

"Allah forbid!" rejoined Al Arabi. "Have you not chosen the service of the Afranj sultan? Why, then, should he not command? Bend to his wish. It may be that he sends to honor you."

"Yours are words of wisdom, father of my mother. My freedom is in the hands of my lord. Farewell, therefore,--and peace be with you till we meet in Andalus," replied Olvir, and he beckoned the groom who held Zora to bring the mare to him.

Al Arabi leaned over the ship's side and extended his arms in a yearning gesture.

"My peace with you, son of Gulnare! I shall suffer many nights of longing before I see your face on the Ebro's bank."

"The days of our meeting will blot out the memory of the parting," answered Olvir; and a smile drove the lingering frown from his brow. Still smiling, he glanced aside at Kasim, with a pleasant word of parting on his lips; but neither look nor word won a responsive smile from the impassive face of the younger Saracen.

A moment later, as the ship's bows swung clear of the bank, Count Gerold rode down beside Olvir and cried out eagerly: "Tell me, hero, is not that your rune-friend Liutrad at the helm?"

"Ay."

"Then may he not come with us? Our lord king will be glad to see him also."

Olvir made a sign to the young giant, who calmly gave the tiller into Floki's hand, and turned to pick up his ponderous axe.

"The hero should move more briskly if he would come ashore dry shod," remarked Gerold, and he pointed to the quickly widening space between the bank and the longship's stern.

"The stag leaps high. I alone can out spring the son of Erling. Watch!"

As Olvir spoke, Liutrad bounded up on the high stern-piece of the ship. For an instant he stood poised on the gilded dragon-tail, gathering force for the wide leap; then he came flying above the water, clear to the side of his earl.

"Well done, Dane!" exclaimed Gerold; and he sprang from his horse.

Liutrad caught the extended hand of the queen's brother in his powerful grip, and met his smile with a look no less friendly. Though the Northman overtopped the Swabian by a head, the two were so well matched in years and nature that their hearts warmed in friendship on the spot.

For a while, as the boyish warriors exchanged pledges of friendship, Olvir watched the white-bearded figure in the stern of the receding ship. At last, with a gesture of farewell, he turned and looked at the new-made friends. His face lighted at sight of their smiles, and with a quick movement he unwound one of the double spirals of gold coiled about his arm. Another twist in his sinewy fingers broke the spiral into two equal parts. Handing one to each of the young men, he explained to the Swabian: "In the North a leader who is not close-fisted is called the 'ring-breaker,' because he gives the red gold of his rings to his true friends and followers. Here, then, I give you each a ring to wear, as a token of the bond between you."

Both sought to thank him; but he cut short their words with a gesture. His face had darkened as though a shadow had fallen across it.

"May the Norns weave you good luck!" he muttered. "Not all friends lack gall in their mead."

"Surely there shall be none in the sweet mead that I 'll drink with Liutrad the loreful!" replied Gerold. "But come now. Our lord king is eager to talk with such wise heroes. It is wonderful that warriors should be so learned. Few even among monks and priests can mark fair letters. Were you and Lord Olvir baptized, his Majesty would make bishops of you both."

"As it is," rejoined Olvir, ironically, "we are benighted heathen,--sons of the fiend-god Thor. And now, as you well say, we had best be moving if we would not keep the great king waiting."

"I will walk to the villa beside my Frank friend," remarked Liutrad, as Olvir placed a hand on Zora's withers and vaulted lightly into the saddle. But Gerold would not agree.

"Yonder is the camp of one who owes me favor," he said. "I will soon have a horse for you."

With Liutrad mounted, the three quickly covered the ride to Casseneuil. Grooms of the king's stables took charge of the horses in the courtyard of the villa, and Gerold, waving aside the Grand Doorward, himself ushered his companions to the royal apartments.

Olvir and Liutrad, staring wonderingly about them at the Roman architecture and Gallo-Roman decorations of the villa, followed Gerold in half-awed silence through the flower-perfumed courts and the marble-tessellated passages. At each turn they looked to find themselves on the threshold of some grand rush-strewn hall, crowded with war-counts and the Frank king's councillors. When, however, Gerold at last led them through a curtained archway, a glance at the tapestried chamber within showed them their mistake.

"The queen's bower!" muttered Olvir, and his black eyes flashed their glance along the line of busily sewing maidens on the right to Rothada, playing with her sister and brothers at the edge of the dais that extended across the farther end of the chamber. Upon the dais sat Hildegarde herself, side by side with her royal spouse.

With all his haughty pride, Olvir was quick to realize the honor paid him, stranger and outlander as he was, by such an introduction into the bosom of the Frank king's family. When he perceived the queen's extended hand beckoning him to approach, he advanced at once down the chamber, without pausing to look about. In his eagerness he failed to see Count Roland and Fastrada, who had drawn apart into one of the recessed windows of the bower. Liutrad, however, chancing to glance that way, turned aside to inquire the health of the wounded count; and Fastrada took instant advantage of the interruption to glide out beside Gerold. If her intention was to overtake Olvir, she was too late. He was already kneeling at the edge of the dais, to kiss the queen's hand.

As the Northman's knee touched the dais step, the great Frank in the oaken seat struck his thigh, and cried loudly: "By my sweet dame's spindle! hereafter I swear by that token! The Dane bows neither to sword nor crown, yet stoops low to a woman's hand."

Olvir stood erect and looked straight into the gracious face of the queen. Hair of golden floss, a skin of dazzling fairness,--neither was new to him; but the mild blue eyes beamed with spiritual light such as was seldom seen even in the lands of Christendom. The daughter of Childebrand, despite her seven years of wedlock, was a dame very lovely to the eye, no less in expression than in feature.

Olvir smiled at her as he would have smiled at Rothada, and, without turning, he answered the king steadily: "I come of high blood, lord king; also, I am a free Northman,--I bow to no man. But the greatest of all may well bow to holiness. We have a saying in the North, 'A good woman is near the gods.'"

"That is a wise saw, however heathenish. But give heed to our queen; she has something to say to you."

"I would give thanks for the safe bringing of this little maiden," remarked Hildegarde. "Only a warrior of noblest heart could have done such a deed."

Olvir shook his head smilingly.

"I freed the Dane's thralls for my own pleasure, which you now double," he said.

"But you shall also accept this ring, as mark of our gratitude," rejoined the queen, and she drew a bracelet of twisted gold wires from her white wrist. When she held out the ornament, Olvir, instead of grasping it, thrust his left hand through the opening.

"How! is the ring on?" exclaimed Karl, in surprise. "The lad has no need to talk of high birth,--a warrior with hands womanly slender!"

"Yet fit to grasp spear or sword," added Hildegarde, gazing curiously at the young sea-king's hard palms and sinewy wrists.

"Before I could walk I played with weapons," replied Olvir, and he glanced aside at the royal children. The king looked also, and at once beckoned to the little group. The sturdy boy Karl sprang forward at the signal, followed by his imperious little sister Rotrude and the toddling Carloman. After the children of Hildegarde came their unfortunate half-brother, the crook-backed Pepin. All were soon perched upon the massive knees of majesty.

There was space left for Rothada at her father's side; but she had lingered to greet Olvir. She came to him, her face beaming with delight and gay welcome, which yet could not altogether hide the shyness of budding maidenhood. Olvir did not wait for her faltering speech. He caught her hands in his and bent to kiss her white forehead.

"Health to you, maiden!" he said. "My sea-wolves send greeting to their little seeress. Already they howl for a glimpse of her bright face."

"I pray they may not howl so loud as when Liutrad, yonder, and the lofty Floki upraised us on the shield. My heart turned to water for fear of their roaring," replied Rothada; and even the awe of her father's presence could not restrain a burst of merry laughter at the memory.

Olvir smiled down into the girl's sparkling eyes.

"Ay, king's daughter," he said; "but you soon lost your dread of the grim hailers. Did you not cry back greeting to them? Small wonder they hailed the little valkyrie who stood so boldly on the shield with their earl; small wonder they choose for vala the wise little leech-maid who went among the stricken warriors with soft words and healing balm."

Karl stared at his daughter in wonder.

"Do you jest, Count Olvir?" he demanded. "This is a part of the tale I had not yet heard. Surely, for a nun-child--"

"She was no nun-child, then, but the child of the great Frank king. Already she had turned away Floki from the burning of the thralls. Then she stood with me on the swaying shield. But not until we crossed the river bar and held war-council oh the Garonne bank did the crews choose her for their vala,--their little seeress-maiden. The stricken Danes whom she had nursed aboard my Raven set her in the midst of the gathering, and the king's daughter won all alike by her sweet wisdom and lore. She holds the fierce hearts of my sea-wolves by a bond subtle and strong as the fetter of the Fenris-wolf. We have sworn to carve the blood-eagle on the back of whoever does her harm."

"The Holy Mother bless you!" cried Hildegarde; and the king, flushing with pleasure, added heartily, "Amen to the good wish! You have well earned it, my bright Dane,--you and all your followers, though you be twice over heathen. Before sunset the grim warriors shall see the maiden in their midst. Now come to my side, child, and let a seat be brought for our guests."

CHAPTER IX

As fair as thou seest

Brides on the bench abiding.

Let not love's silver

Rule over thy dreams;

Draw no woman to kind kisses.

LAY OF SIGRDRIFA.

As Rothada sprang up the step of the dais to nestle close to her father, Gerold drew out a bench from the nearest wall. On this Olvir seated himself, and the king beckoned to Liutrad and Roland.

"Come forward, heroes," he said; "and you, Gerold."

The quick advance of her companions left Fastrada alone in the midst of the bower. She hesitated and looked appealingly to the king. Karl had bent over the children clasped in his great arms; but Hildegarde saw the girl's look, and signed to her to take the place on the bench beside Roland.

Crimson with shamefaced delight, the girl glided forward. Near the bench, however, she began to falter, seemingly overcome by diffidence. A very audible tittering from the other bower-maidens sent her edging around the end of the bench farthest from Roland. Then the king, drawn by the note of merriment, looked up and fixed his gaze upon her. Was it to be wondered that, between her diffidence and the awe of the royal presence, the girl shrank back to the bench in such confusion as to thrust herself between Liutrad Erlingson and his lord?

Karl burst into a hearty laugh.

"Holy Mother!" he exclaimed, "it is our herald maiden. She plays her own part more ill than another's. Did you not tell me, sweetheart, that Roland--ay, it was Roland! We will mend matters if this young Dane bear will barter seats on the bench with a stricken hero."

Liutrad sprang up at the word. But Count Roland sat firmly in his place.

"The maiden has good eyesight, and there is space beside me," he said.

A second and louder titter ran down the row of bower-maidens, and even Hildegarde could not suppress a smile. Fastrada only blushed the more, and sat with downcast eyes, not even venturing a glance at the young sea-king beside her. Her drooping shoulder pressed lightly against the gold spirals on the Norse hero's mailed arm. She sat very quiet.

Again Karl laughed, this time at the frowning face of his nephew.

"Ha, kinsman," he admonished in a jesting tone, "the maiden seems coy. Your wooing has been over-hearty."

"That could not be, dear lord, if the maiden loves him," observed Hildegarde, softly.

"Which is to say--"

"Nothing, sire, nothing!" broke in Roland. "We were merely talking of my sword-brother."

"A choice subject," rejoined Karl; "yet had I worn the buskins of Count Roland, I should have talked more of the maiden herself, and of Count Roland's thoughts of her."

Roland's frown deepened, and Fastrada's blushing face bent still farther forward. Olvir sat rigidly erect, striving to resist his desire to gaze down on the drooping maiden. He had caught one glimpse of her face as she stood between him and the king,--a glimpse that of itself was enough to set his pulses wildly throbbing; and now there was added to it the warmth and perfume of her person close against his side. The temptation was almost greater than he could bear. Only by the strongest effort could he hold in mind his duty to his foster-brother. Of all present, he perhaps felt most keenly the constraint of the silence which followed the king's well-meant raillery.

The pause was broken by Hildegarde, with the kindly thought of diverting attention from the lovers.

"Dear lord, you told me that Count Olvir was the foster-son of Otkar the Dane. Have I not also heard you say that Lord Otkar was the craftiest as well as the strongest of warriors?"

"He was a foe worthy a king," answered Karl. "Would that the hero were now beside my throne, with his grey wit and mighty axe! Yet I should not complain. Here is one whom he has reared in all his lore and wisdom."

"The lore, but not the wisdom, lord king," replied Olvir. "He could give me the one; the other no man may impart."

"True; and the saying tells me you have found wisdom for yourself. Beware, for now I shall put your wit to the test. I would ask your counsel on this Saracen war. All my other borders are pacified. Even the Saxon Mark--"

"Count nothing on the Saxons, lord king," interrupted Olvir.

"How! already a difference from my councillors? Not one in my hall but will tell you those wolves are at last tamed. I have planted their wild land with fortresses and chapels."

"Your church tithes and the preaching of your priests will soon stir the sons of Odin to renewed anger. I speak words from Otkar's lips. There will be blood on priestly robes. Your burgs and your chapels will see the torch. Look for no sure peace in Saxon Land so long as Wittikind the Westphalian bears his head upon his shoulders."

"He dwells with Sigfrid the Dane, as you yourself bring word."

"Scant cheer! When he comes again, it will be with a following of Dane warriors. If he is content to dwell always with the Nordmannian king, why should he send the murderer Hroar to bear off this little maiden by your knee?"

The king laid his hand on Rothada's head, and his face grew stern with a look of majesty and power before which even Olvir sat half awed.

"Dane and Saxon,--sea-wolf and forest-wolf,--let the wild hordes come! They shall find other than lambs to greet them!"

"Yet now you 'd lay open the Mark to them, lord king," persisted Olvir. "You plan to lead your host still farther from the Rhineland."

"By Thor, Olvir," broke in Liutrad, with Norse freedom, "why seek to mar such fair chance of sword-play? The more of war, the merrier for heroes. And would you turn aid from your Saracen kin?"

"Saracen kin; how's that, my Norse hawk? Is the boy mad?"

"No, lord king," replied Olvir; "my face should tell otherwise. Because of it, men in the North call me Elfkin; but this is the truth,--in my mother's veins Greek and Arab blood were mingled. Her father, Sheik Suleyman, is known to you as Al Arabi,--leader of the Saracen envoys."

"Al Arabi!"

"One-time Emir of Armenia. The wife who bore him my mother was of kin to the Emperor Leo, whom men call the Isaurian."

"By my crown! no longer do I wonder at your unbending knee! I have done well to honor you. What is your knowledge of the Saracen folk?"

"As to those in the Eastland, I learned much from Otkar and from Arabic writings; but of these in Andalus, I know only what came to me last night from the lips of my mother's father."

"And what did he say of Abd-er-Rahman? The Saracen king has the name of a great warrior."

"True, lord king; yet the Beni Al Abbas cherish undying hatred against the Omyyad."

"These Saracen pagans are loath to take oath; but the envoys swore to the fealty of their faction. I count no less on aid from the Christian folk in that land."

"And Duke Lupus, your Majesty," added Roland, with a sudden show of interest. "He brings us safe passage of the Pyrenees."

"I have heard Otkar speak of the Vascons," rejoined Olvir, dryly. "It is said they do not love outlanders. As to this duke, is he not of Merwing blood?"

"True,--and therefore lacks boldness to break his allegiance," answered Karl.

Olvir's lip curled in a slow smile.

"A fox will snap in his own den, and, at the best, the mountain-cats are hard to hold. You may look for aid to the Beni Al Abbas; but count neither on Christian Vascon nor Christian Goth."

"What! do you hold that the Christian folk would choose their pagan oppressors before a ruler of their own faith? Our Holy Father Hadrian numbers them among the truest of Christians."

"And yet, lord king, the Moslem yoke is lighter on their necks than is your own upon the folk of Aquitania."

At the bold assertion, Karl's heavy brows met in a frown, and an angry light shone from his grey eyes.

"My yoke,--my yoke!" he repeated slowly. "By my sword, young Dane, you are no court-man. Otkar himself would scarce have ventured so bitter a jeer."

"Jeer! The king asked my counsel, and I gave it. I believe what I spoke; it came to me from Otkar. Why, then, should I not speak it?"

"Why not?" rejoined Karl; and he burst into hearty laughter. Then, falling grave again, he nodded, and called out approvingly, "Here, in truth, is a king's son! Hearken, my Dane hawk; though I have bold counts as well as sleek flatterers, my ears are not used to such biting truths. It shall be otherwise hereafter. I will not willingly part with so straight-tongued a counsellor."

The great Frank paused to pat the heads of the three boys astride his knees.

"May these bairns prove as bold," he added. "And now, enough of such matters. I had intended, Olvir, to test your learning, and that of your ruddy-cheeked follower; but that must now wait. After the feast of Lupus, we will have you both come of an evening to feast us on your book-lore."

"The feast of Lupus!" sighed Hildegarde, pausing in her needlework. "I wish that I might attend it with you, dear lord."

"And why, sweetheart?"

"Fastrada, tell his Majesty of the feast."

Thus called upon by her royal mistress, Fastrada raised her eyes with a timid glance, which, as she spoke, faltered and turned appealingly aside toward Olvir.

"Your Majesty," she murmured, "it is said that the Vascon duke has planned his feast after the manner of the old-time Romans. Instead of seats, he will place couches for the guests to recline upon while they dine."

"What!--to lie and sup together? The Vascon proves his Merwing blood. None other would think of mating bed and board. Yet he is host; we must make the best of it."

"Surely no harm will follow, sire," said Gerold. "Abbot Fulrad and other churchmen will be there, and thus to act out an ancient custom will give play for much merriment."

"Joy works no harm," replied Karl, nodding. "At the least, we shall give the duke's hospitality fair trial. Meantime, there is much else to demand our care. Farewell for the present, my Dane hawk, and you, young Samson."

All on the bench rose at the word of dismissal. Olvir, with a bow to the queen and a kindly glance for Rothada, turned quickly away after Gerold and Liutrad, resolutely refraining from a single glance at the lovely bench-mate whom he thus suddenly deserted.

In vain Fastrada gazed longingly after the Northman; while, no less vainly, Roland lingered for a parting look from the girl. Both were alike disappointed.

As the bower-maiden glided silently back among her companions, the wounded count followed Olvir from the chamber with a heavy tread.

CHAPTER X

Bids she not to be wary?

For a wolf's hair I found.

Wolf-beset shall be the way

If we fare on this errand.

SONG OF ATLI.

Evening of the following day found Olvir and Gerold returning to the viking camp from a successful hunt. Zora had fully justified the praises of her giver, and bore her rider into camp without a sign of fatigue. But the heavier Frankish horse was so spent by the chase that he could hardly carry his rider to Olvir's tent.

At the sound of their approach the tent was opened from within, and Count Roland came out to greet the hunters.

"Ho, brother!" called Olvir, as he leaped to the ground. "It is well; you keep tryst."

"Better than some," replied Roland. "Already we should be on our way to the Vascon's hall; yet Gerold is as good as horseless."

"We shall go more quickly by boat. Ho, there, Floki! man the Raven's barki. While we wait, brother, Gerold and I will change chase-gear for hall-dress."

"Stay; first see to this. A palace slave handed it to me for you. He claimed to know nothing of the giver, but said that the matter was urgent."

"A maiden's gift," ventured Gerold, at sight of the little ivory vial which Roland held out to the Northman.

Olvir took the gift and examined it keenly. There was yet ample light for him to discern a faint "F" traced on the cover of the vial. At the discovery every nerve of his body thrilled with sudden uncontrollable delight. But he shook his head at Gerold's suggestion, and said almost harshly, "I know of no maiden who should so honor me."

"Look within, brother; let us see what is sent," said Roland.

Olvir at once opened the little vessel and held it up to view. The sight brought out a merry shout from Gerold.

"Saint Petronella!" he cried; "the maiden loves you, hero. She has sent a lock of hair."

"But a sparse tress, as suits a grey spinster," added Roland, who had looked closer.

"Grey spinster!" muttered Olvir, and he held out to his smiling companions the one grey bristle which had lain coiled in the vial. "Here is hair, but no woman's," he added significantly.

"A wolf's hair!" exclaimed Roland. "But why--"

"A warning!" broke in Gerold. "I 've heard of the like in Saxon Land; and did not Gudrun, in the old lay, send such to her kinsmen? Am I not right, hero?"

"Ay; come within, Roland. Hroar's scale hauberk will hang well on your shoulders. You, Gerold, shall go borrow a mail-serk from a man your size. Bid Floki see to it that the boatmen also arm themselves. None shall go to the feast naked."

"You fear an attack?" questioned Roland as Gerold darted away.

"There are lonely copses on the way to Casseneuil," answered Olvir.

"If men lie in wait, they will not look for us in the boat. We will pass them by."

"And if not? Besides, it may be that the danger waits us at the villa--even in the feast hall. A dagger from behind--"

"True; Lupus is a Merwing. God forbid he put poison in our flagons!"

"That we must chance. But the good mail beneath our jerkins will do no harm."

Roland's response was to unbuckle the belt from which swung the heavy blade of Ironbiter. Olvir then unrolled Hroar's scale hauberk from its fur wrappings, and, having adjusted the bandages on the Frank's half-healed wounds, he buckled the armor about the massive body of his friend. The count's silk-embroidered tunic followed, entirely covering the gilded steel. Last of all, Olvir replaced Ironbiter with a lighter sword. Roland yet lacked strength to wield that great Norse blade.

Olvir's own mail was on in a trice, followed as quickly by his gala jerkin. Unlike Roland's tunic, however, the jerkin failed to hide his armor. Its gold collar might have passed as an ornament; but the long sleeves of ring-mail glinting beneath the cloth at the wearer's wrists could be mistaken by none.

"Thor! what care I for the Merwing?" exclaimed Olvir; and stripping off the jerkin, he belted Al-hatif on the shimmering mail. As he flung his gay cloak about his shoulders, he added grimly, "If the Vascon question my feast-dress, I have my answer. More than one tale did Otkar tell as he lay dying."

"Bear in mind, brother, the duke will be our host; so ward your tongue," cautioned Roland.

"Let him look to his own, then, and mine will wag little," replied Olvir. "Ah, here comes Gerold, with a good mail-serk on his back. On with your hall-dress, lad. We wait for you."

"The boat also. I was seeking Liutrad, to care for my horse," explained Gerold, as he drew on the garments tossed him by Olvir.

A little later the three friends were seated in the stern of the Raven's boat, and six mail-clad vikings were rowing them upstream, through the twilight, with long, steady strokes. Floki himself pulled bow-oar.

For a while Olvir skirted the shore; then he steered out into midstream.

"Ho, earl! swing in again," called Floki, sharply. "The stream might well run slower."

"Also your tongue, Crane!" retorted Olvir. "In this dusk watchers might doubt our looks; but Thor smite me if they could doubt your croak."

"What of that?" growled Floki.

"Have you so soon forgot?" demanded Gerold. "In this wood is the camp of Count Hardrat, whom two days since your ring-breaker flung on the turf."

"Liutrad's red pig!" said Floki, contemptuously.

"But even the meanest foe--"

Roland stopped short. An arrow had whistled past, not a span before his face.

"Saint Michael! an attack!" cried Gerold. "Put about, hero. We 'll land, and slay the murderers!"

"They shall hang! Put about, brother!" shouted Roland, as a second arrow flew out of the gloom, to shiver on his shoulder, and another fell blunted from Olvir's side.

The sea-king's nostrils quivered, and his black eyes flashed eagerly, as, thrusting over the steer-oar, he stooped for the arrow at his feet. For a moment he stood peering at the missile in the dim light, and a fourth arrow struck quivering in the boat's upcurved stern. Then, with a stifled cry, he thrust back the steer-oar so forcefully that the turning boat surged round again and headed for the opposite shore.

"Ho, look to your tiller!" protested Roland. "You sheer off."

"Give way, men," commanded Olvir. "Who hungers for venomed shafts?"

"Venomed?" cried Gerold.'

"Look for yourselves," answered Olvir, as he handed the arrow to Roland. "Beware the point, brother."

"This is no Frank shaft," said Roland, the instant he felt the arrow.

"No," replied Olvir, bitterly; "nor is the steel glazed for rust guard. Otkar brought the like from Saracen Land. They are more deadly than the adder."

"But who--"

"My Saracen kinsman, the younger envoy. Have I not won the old sheik's love and taken Zora from him?"

"The foul pagan!" muttered Roland. "But we have passed him. No more arrows whistle."

"And the snake crawls away unscathed!" spluttered Gerold, boiling with righteous anger.

But Olvir stood silent. Not until the boat swung in beside the villa landing did he speak a word, and then only a curt command: "Moor offshore, Floki, and wait."

"A dreary watch," remarked Gerold. "I could send wine--"

"Thanks, lad; but we have mead aboard," replied Floki. "A merry feast to you!"

"That is a notable henchman, brother," observed Roland.

Olvir made no reply. Silent as before, he followed his companions to the Vascon's hall. In the light of passing torches they saw his face livid with grief and anger.

In the Roman portico Roland paused and laid a hand on the Northman's shoulder.

"Guests--even armed guests--should come to the feast smiling," he said.

"True; yet my mouth tastes of gall,--my own kinsman!"

"There is that within will sweeten the taste, hero," replied Gerold. "Do not shame us with your frown."

"Lead in, then," said Olvir, and he smothered down the rage and grief which distorted his face. Before the three had passed the threshold of the banquet-chamber, the Northman's look, though stern, no longer showed a trace of passion.

CHAPTER XI

A fair may know I,

Fair of all the fairest,

Girt about with gold,

Good for thy getting.

LAY OF REGIN.

The feast was already begun when the doorward came forward to show the belated guests to their places. They followed him, gazing about with keenest curiosity. The apartment was one of ordinary size, hung with tapestries of a fashion familiar even to the Northman,--purple and blue silks, embroidered in gold and brilliant colors with peacocks and lions, griffins and unicorns. But, notwithstanding what they had heard from Fastrada in the queen's bower, all three, as they went forward, stared half bewildered at the sight of the guests on the pillowed couches.

The table, shaped like a horseshoe greatly elongated, gave room for thirty guests. It was a gay company,--stately dames and merry-faced bower-maidens, high court officials, war-counts, and pompous bishops, all alike gorgeous with silks and jewels.

The king himself reclined on a raised couch at the head of the board, with Duke Lupus at his right. On his left was the genial white-haired Abbot Fulrad; next to whom a high court-dame sat in a chair, severely erect, her eyes fixed watchfully upon the bower-maidens. Two places below the old dame Roland's eager gaze instantly singled out Fastrada.

One couch above and two below the maiden were vacant; and when the doorward waved Gerold and Roland to the latter, the Count of the Breton Mark flung himself down beside Fastrada, without a thought as to why the Vascon should have arranged such an opportunity for his most earnest rival. Gerold, little less hasty, took the second place and fell into gay chatter with the laughing bower-maiden on his left.

Olvir, however, was not to be diverted from his sombre mood either by love or by merriment. He advanced to his place above Fastrada with no sign of surprise at the high honor rendered him by its nearness to the head of the board. Heedless of the maiden, heedless even of the king, he flung back his cloak and stood with the light shimmering on his bared mail, his piercing gaze fixed upon Duke Lupus.

Almost instantly the laughter of the guests died away, and they stared at the Northman in wondering silence. But the king half rose on his couch.

"What does this mean, Dane?" he demanded. "Do guests in the North dine in full war-gear?"

"Not so, lord king; in the North there is no need."

"Saint Michael! what need here?"

"This is good answer," replied Olvir; and plucking the poisoned arrow from beneath his cloak, he darted it into the table directly before Duke Lupus. The Vascon's startled cry and deathly pallor, as he flung himself back, fully justified the test.

"The viper!" muttered Olvir. "Others than my kinsman shared in the murderous deed. Only for a blind were the high places at the feast kept for us."

The king had bent forward, and was reaching to draw the arrow from the wood. As he grasped the black shaft, Gerold cried warningly: "Beware, sire; the dart is venomed!"

Karl sat upright, the arrow raised before his eyes.

"I see," he said sternly, "this is no clean point; but it is blunted."

"On my mail," replied Olvir.

"Thank God the mail was proof! A foul deed! Name the wretches, Count Olvir. They shall meet death in the slime."

"That I may not do, lord king. Would such foul ones as they stand in the open?"

"This is no Frankish arrow."

"Nor Vascon!" stammered Lupus.

Olvir smiled darkly. "Lay it to some chance band of outland thieves, lord king. No others would be so base. And now, enough of treachery and bitterness! May all turn again to the merrymaking. I would not be a mar-joy."

Karl nodded gravely and rolled the poisoned arrow in his kerchief. Then he sank back again upon his couch, and gave command: "The count says well. Let the feast go on."

But Olvir stood waiting beside his place.

"What more?" demanded Karl.

"Does the host question my feast-dress?"

"I? No! What does my lord count mean?" exclaimed Lupus. "I welcome you gladly, in steel or in silk. Feast and be merry!"

"As you bid, lord duke," replied Olvir, smiling; but as he stretched out on the couch his eyes sparkled with another look than friendship.

"So; the wily snake! Not my cup alone shall taste of gall."

"White to the lips, the young sea-king turned to his enemy." (Page [44])

The comforting thought was diverted by a soft whisper at his ear,--"Do not be deceived, lord count. The Merwing lies."

In the tense strain of his test with the arrow, Olvir had lost all consciousness of Fastrada's presence. Now, however, he turned about, and his gaze rested upon the maiden's exquisite figure. At the sight, all his bitter thoughts of treachery and revenge were forgotten. He had no time to recall his sword-brother to mind before the girl raised her head, and, smiling and blushing with undisguised pleasure, turned upon him a look that set his heart to throbbing with mad delight.

"So my lord count is at last pleased to greet me," she half whispered.

"I had first to greet the host, maiden," rejoined Olvir, with a flash of grim humor.

"Ai! it was grandly done! But I shudder to think of your peril!" and the girl's bosom heaved with emotion.

Olvir gazed straight into her eyes, blue as sapphires and melting with love. Again his heart leaped wildly and sent the hot blood surging through his veins. All the Oriental in his nature was aroused. But it held control only for a moment. Over the graceful head of the maiden he caught sight of his foster-brother's face, clouded with doubt and bewilderment. One glance was enough to sober the viking. Not even youth and Eastern blood could withstand the Northern loyalty. Olvir tore his gaze from the spell of the sapphire eyes and stared out across the silver-laden table, his face stern almost to fierceness.

Fastrada, her blushes fast paling, watched him from beneath lowered lashes with a startled look. Roland also watched him, his blue eyes still troubled. Presently a change lit up the Northman's face. He turned about, with a frank smile for Roland, and met Fastrada's glance with a look of calm resolve.

"Drink with me, maiden," he said. "I pledge one who is the truest friend, the boldest hero in all Frank Land."

"I drink to that hero," replied Fastrada; and over the brim of her crystal goblet her eyes again beamed upon Olvir.

Great as was his self-control, the young man looked hastily away. But then his lip curled in scorn of his weakness, and he exclaimed, "We drink to my sword-brother. May he find favor in the eyes of the queen's fairest maiden!"

"The fair to the fair," rejoined Fastrada, with adroit play on the word. "The fair count will win a flaxen bride. But among the dark maidens I know one who has made choice of a dark-faced hero."

At the open confession Olvir panted, and his eyes glistened with the love which he could no longer restrain. Yet he held firm to his purpose.

"The dark maiden is a foolish maiden," he answered. "She should choose the blue-eyed hero,--a warrior of kingly blood. His great heart overflows with love for the maiden,--he, the king's kin, who need but speak, and honors will be heaped upon him. But the dark warrior, who is he?--a heathen outlander; a stranger in the land; a wanderer!"

"No, Olvir!" interrupted Roland, hoarsely; "you are no stranger, but my true brother. Listen, Fastrada! For no short day you have known that I loved you, and you have never frowned upon my wooing. Yet now I see that you turn to my brother. May the Holy Mother grant that you do not scorn his love the same! Give him the happiness which I thought should be mine."

"And which I 'll not take from you," rejoined Olvir. "Shall I cut the heart from the breast of my brother?"

"That the maiden already has done. I blame neither her nor my loyal brother. You have wooed for me, and failed; now you can woo for yourself without blame."

"He may win the same answer, lord count," said Fastrada, proudly.

The retort passed unheeded. The foster-brothers were gazing into each other's eyes. Soon, however, Roland turned away, that his friend might not perceive the grief which he could no longer hide. Olvir divined the cause of the movement, and he also sank back on his couch, to stare moodily before him.

For a while Fastrada held to her pretence of coldness, waiting for Olvir to begin his wooing. But he maintained his moody stare, and gave no sign. His silence and the sternness of his look puzzled and alarmed the girl. Clearly, this was a very different kind of lover from the sighing swains who trembled if she but withheld her smiles. Not even Roland would have so fought against his love when freed from the bond of foster-duty. One who could put honor before desire was indeed rare among suitors. Woman-like, Fastrada grew all the more eager at the seeming indifference. Unable longer to simulate coyness, she leaned toward her chosen hero and whispered softly: "Olvir,--Olvir, I wait to hear you speak."

Without turning or lifting his head, the Northman answered coldly: "Why should you wait, daughter of Rudulf? I have stamped my heel on the heart of my brother; I have stolen from him what he cherished more than life. The thief's loot is the thief's curse."

"Yet what have you stolen, Olvir? Surely, nothing that Lord Roland possessed, or any other Frank. Until you came, I had never loved any man--and now--and now--"

The pleading whisper died away in silence; but Olvir had turned, flushed and bright-eyed, no longer able to resist the love which filled his whole being. He saw how the girl leaned toward him, her bosom heaving, her scarlet lips half parted. Her cheeks were again crimson with blushes, and her eyes met his gaze with the open confession of her love.

"Thou art Freya!" he exclaimed adoringly, and the girl quivered with joy to see how his face softened and his eyes shone with rapture. Half unconsciously they drew nearer together and murmured their love over and over again.

They exchanged rings and whispered the betrothal vows, regardless alike of the unheeding revellers and of the far from friendly glances of their host. If Hardrat the Thuringian felt displeased at the success of the Dane intruder, no trace of the feeling was perceptible on his wine-flushed features. Lupus, however, took no pains to repress his jealous scowl.

For a time the Vascon was required to devote his attention to the royal guest at his side; but when Karl fell to jesting with Abbot Fulrad, Lupus could watch the lovers, undiverted. As he looked, a fit of jealous rage seized upon him. Though they hardly touched hands, the sight was more than he could bear. His first thought was to sign to his steward to put poison in the Northman's wine. A seemingly careless gesture and nod, and the crafty slave would know the chosen victim. But the sign was not given. At the last moment the duke perceived that Olvir's silver tankard stood brimming beside his trencher. What little wine the young man drank was sipped from Fastrada's cup.

Barred of his simplest and most certain means of removing his rival, the Vascon sat gnawing his lip, his face distorted with the look of a baffled fiend. Count Hardrat, failing to attract the duke's attention by his warning glances, spoke to the steward. But the mischief was already past mending. Drawn by the intensity of the duke's look, Olvir and Fastrada raised their heads, and for an instant both saw the malignant stare of the Vascon. Quickly as he looked away, neither failed to divine his jealous rage. Fastrada clasped her lover's hand in sudden dread.

"Ai! how he hates you!" she whispered.

"No new tidings," rejoined Olvir. Then he put his hand to his breast and turned smilingly to the maiden. "Dear one, here is hidden a bit of hollowed ivory of which you may have knowledge."

"The hollow was not empty," replied the girl. "I feared for you--I fear more now."

"You feared?"

Fastrada hesitated and glanced across the table at Hardrat. The war-count was intent on his trencher. She drew a deep breath, and, with eyes downcast, murmured her answer to Olvir's question: "My lord should know that others than Roland wooed me before his coming, and so there are those--"

"--Who do not wish me well," said Olvir, as the girl faltered. "Still, that is not cause enough for your wolf's hair."

"True, Olvir; and yet the token was sent at a venture. I know nothing certain. I chanced to see Lupus talking with my drunken countryman Hardrat. As I came upon them, Hardrat growled out your name, and repeated it with a curse. Then they saw me, and the drunkard hurried away like a guilty man. But Lupus stayed to greet me. I could not rid myself of him until I was bidden to the queen's bower."

"He saw that you thought to send a warning."

"No serpent is more subtle. But if he thinks to come between us, let him beware!"

Surprised by the hissing note in the softly murmured threat, Olvir glanced up from the hand he was fondling. He was too late to catch the cruel expression which for a moment had marred the girl's beauty; but he wondered to see how the color of her eyes had altered to a greenish grey. As he looked, her gaze met his, and the greenish tints quickly gave place again to the blue.

"By Freya, sweetheart," he said, "your eyes change their hue."

"My heart will never change."

"Nor mine, by my sword! But what hushes the merrymaking? Ah! the host rises to speak."

Standing on his couch, Lupus smiled down condescendingly upon his guests, and, to draw attention, waved a hand whose every finger was burdened with gem-rings.

"Brave counts and holy priests, chaste dames and beautiful maidens," he began, "fill your goblets to the brim, and drink with me to the health of the great ruler who honors us with his presence."

A chorus of shouts greeted the toast, and every man sprang to his feet, Olvir first of all.

"Long live the king!" cried Hardrat, his bloodshot eyes fixed upon Lupus.

"The king! the king!--long live the king!" shouted the guests in chorus, and the war-counts brandished their bared swords overhead while all present drained their wine-cups to the bottom.

As Olvir sheathed Al-hatif, he looked down, eager to rejoin Fastrada. In this, however, he was to be disappointed. The duenna dame had risen from her chair and was leaving the table. Immediately all the women present, dames and maidens alike, rose to follow their leader. None longed more to stay than did Fastrada, and she lingered beside Olvir to the very last. Already the women had drawn aside. Olvir looked at the girl ruefully.

"So we must part, sweetheart," he sighed.

Fastrada gazed into his dark face, and half whispered her answer: "Ah, my hero, would that the time had come when we need never part!"

"That, I trust, may soon be," replied Olvir, and he drew aside for the girl to pass. She would still have lingered beside him, but the old dame beckoned to her, and she glided away to join the other bower-maidens.

As the women swept after their leader through a private passage, Duke Lupus reached out to refill the king's gold flagon. He was met by a quick gesture of refusal, and Karl turned his empty cup brim down upon the table.

"Enough of wine," he said. "I am not over-fond of wassail, and the feast is dull without our fair ones to grace the board."

Lupus opened his lips to protest, but caught a glance from Hardrat, and changed at once to bowing compliance: "Your Majesty, dancing and juggling were to have followed. Yet whatever may be your pleasure--"

"You are a kind host, and we give thanks for the feast. Another time we may enjoy the mountebanks. Farewell, lord duke. God keep you! Anselm, a word in private; and you, Fulrad. Farewell, my bright Dane."

Olvir wheeled about to salute the king. As his hand fell, his eye met Karl's smiling gaze, and he glanced down at the royal couch. The king looked, and saw the arrow wrapped in his kerchief. He nodded gravely to Olvir, and, arrow in hand, left the chamber, between Anselm and Fulrad.

Released from restraint by the departure of the king, the remaining guests gathered about the head of the table, and many accepted the duke's invitation to join in a wassail bout. Most of the priests, however, and a few of the counts at once withdrew from the banquet-chamber. In their midst went Olvir, so intent on the vision of Fastrada's loveliness that he had no thought for his foster-brother.

Still musing, he passed the door, and found himself standing in the torchlight, face to face with Gerold and Roland. His eyes fell, and he would have passed by the two with flushed cheeks, had not Roland laid a hand on his shoulder and turned to walk beside him.

"Our horses are at your camp, gossip," calmly remarked the Frank. "We shall return with you for the night."

"The murderers may yet linger," added Gerold, from the rear.

Olvir halted and stepped back from Roland.

"Thor!" he muttered. "This--after what has happened!"

"Are you not my brother?" demanded Roland. "Heu! I know now she did not love me. If she had, I should hate you. But you have robbed me of nothing. How, then, can I grudge you your good fortune?"

"Brother!" cried Olvir.

CHAPTER XII

Look on thy loved one,

Lay lips to his lips.

LAY OF GUDRUN.

On the morning after the feast, the first to greet Roland as he stepped from Olvir's tent was a stocky, bow-legged warrior, whose unkempt red beard and travel-stained dress of coarse wool and leather spoke far more strongly of the camp than of kings' halls. But Roland answered the new-comer's hearty shout with a greeting no less cordial.

"Ho, Amalwin!" he cried; "I did not look to see your Saxon face this far south. What of your fellows in the Sorb Mark,--Count Rudulf?"

"Worad and I came with our levies, the few that Rudulf would spare us. The little birds twitter on the green boughs; but the crafty Grey Wolf scents war in the spring breezes. He will not venture Rhineward from his mark a step beyond Fulda."

"How is that, friend?" called Olvir, from the entrance of the tent. "Will not Count Rudulf attend the Mayfields?"

The Saxon stared at the Norse earl in mingled surprise and admiration until Roland repeated the question, "Then Rudulf will not come to the assembly?"

"Not he! I half wish I were myself back over Rhine Stream, in the deep forest. But who is this young hero?"

"Greet him as my sword-brother. He is a Northman from beyond the Danes,--a fosterling of Otkar."

"Of Otkar!" shouted Amalwin; and he ran to grasp Olvir's hand. "The Dane himself took me thrall at the fall of the Irminsul; yet he gave me freedom, and won for me the good-will of Carloman."

Olvir nodded: "Be sure the hero spoke no ill to me of Amalwin the Saxon. But Count Rudulf--I must speak with him."

"Then you must fare over Rhine Stream, hero," rejoined Amalwin.

"I know the Grey Wolf," added Roland, nodding in assent. "If he scents forest-war, he will not stir out of his mark for all the Saracens in the old Goth realm."

"It is well I have Zora, brother. I shall start without delay. The time of your Folk-meet is not over-long."

"That is true, Northman," remarked Amalwin. "Two fortnights will see the close of the Mayfields. Though you ride the fleetest of horses, your return will find Karl the King across the Pyrenees, and the Saracens already broken."

Olvir shook his head; but Roland broke in quickly: "Come, brother; let us bear Amalwin company to our lord king. He should know at once of your wish."

"I had forgotten. I am now only a henchman," said Olvir, and he frowned.

For a little while, as they walked along the river's bank to the royal pavilion, his anger kept him moody and silent. But then he began to question Amalwin on the course and condition of the roads along the main route to the Rhine.

Though Karl was deep in the affairs of his immense realm, he was none too busy to turn immediately at sight of the Saxon.

"Ho, my forest-bear!--greeting to you! Where is Rudulf?"

"Lying in lair, lord king. He scents blood near by," answered Amalwin, and he bent awkwardly to kiss the royal knee.

"How? Stand up, man. Are the Sorbs harrying?"

"Neither Sorb nor Saxon; yet the old wolf will not fare far from his mark. His wife, the Wend woman, has been at her witchery. She forebodes evil from the west. So he lies in his mark, sniffing the Saxon breezes."

"Witchcraft--witchcraft!" muttered Karl, frowning. "We must again warn Rudulf to keep his outland dame within our law. But as to the boding,--the fiends may read the future! Rudulf has a grey head, and you, my bright Dane, brought added warning. Rudulf shall have our arrow-bode, to levy at will all the land-host of Thuringia and Austrasia."

"Give me leave to bear the message, lord king," said Olvir.

"You, my Dane hawk? I counted on you to lead the host into Spain."

"My kinsman Al Arabi gave me an Arab mare. I will go and come before the ending of the Mayfields."

"Then your mare must be winged! Why should you go?"

Olvir glanced at Roland, flushing darkly.

The Frank met the look with a grave smile, and answered for his sword-brother: "It is a simple matter, sire. Olvir would ask Count Rudulf for the hand of his daughter. The Thuringian will not come south; so the suitor must go north."

"Still, is a long journey."

"I will return before you march, lord king," repeated Olvir.

Karl gazed steadily into the haughty face of the Northman. What he saw there soon satisfied his doubts. He nodded, and said briefly: "Fulrad will have the writings drawn up within an hour. Make ready--Stay! here is my ring. It may speed your faring."

Olvir's eyes glistened as he took the royal signet.

"Thor!" he cried. "Here is a king whom a king's son may serve without shame!"

"Then fly, king's son. We 'll be looking for your return."

Olvir saluted, and hastened out through the crowds of envious lords. He was springing away from the pavilion, when Roland's voice brought him to a stand: "Hold, brother! a word. I go first to the villa, to make ready for your farewell."

"Brother--ay, brother!" muttered Olvir; and he stood hesitating, overcome by the insistent generosity of the Frank. But time pressed. He waved his hand to Roland and darted away again.

The hour had hardly passed when Olvir sprang down from Zora's back, beside Gerold and Roland, at the main gateway of the villa. The older count promptly took the bridle-rein, while Gerold turned and led Olvir to the queen's apartments.

There was little change within the bower since Olvir's first visit. As before, Hildegarde sat on the dais, with the children grouped about her feet, and the row of busy maidens on her left. Only the king was absent.

At Olvir's entrance, the maidens dropped their needlework, to glance at him from beneath their lashes and exchange softly murmured comments on his appearance. But Olvir's gaze was already fixed upon the graceful form of Fastrada, among the children on the dais edge. Heedless of the chattering maidens, he hastened forward, his ardor so keen that he could hardly conceal his impatience when Rothada came running to meet him.

"You leave us, Lord Olvir!" she exclaimed.

"Ay, little maid; the time is short. Farewell," he answered, and, with a hasty kiss on her forehead, he passed by. For a moment he knelt to kiss the queen's hand, and then he was beside Fastrada, drinking in the loveliness of her blushing face. The look in her eyes as she gazed at his lithe figure and resplendent war-gear filled him with such an intoxicating delight that for a little he failed to comprehend Hildegarde's remark: "I know nothing of your Norse customs, Lord Olvir. Here we are somewhat strict with unbetrothed maidens. You must say your farewells in our presence."

Fastrada drooped her head to hide a look of resentment, and her dainty foot tapped the floor ominously. Olvir, however, the moment he sensed the queen's meaning, smiled up at her and answered gaily, "Why speak of strictness, dear dame? True love has nothing to hide."

As he spoke, he took Fastrada's hands, and bent to kiss her, thrilling with all the love and reverence of the Northern heart for a pure woman. But as their lips met, the girl, unable to restrain the impulse of her wild Wendish blood, threw herself upon his breast, and flung her arms about his neck. He could feel the throbbing of her heart through his mail.

"Farewell, my lord--my hero!" she whispered brokenly. "Hasten back again. If you linger, I shall die!"

"Never has man gone that journey swifter than I shall go, dear one. If you have need of service, ask for Liutrad Erlingson. All my sea-wolves are at your command. Now, farewell, for a little time!"

Tearing himself from the girl's embrace, Olvir turned and walked quickly away. Rothada and her brothers joined the queen in a chorus of God-speeds; but Olvir waved his hand and leaped out through the doorway, without a single glance even for Fastrada.

He found Roland with one hand on Zora's neck and the other caressing the mare's bony cheek. The Frank turned at once at the sound of Olvir's light step, and caught his outstretched hands. For a moment the two gazed at each other with eyes aglow. Then Olvir leaped into the saddle and called to the mare in Arabic. Wheeling at the word, she leaped through the gateway and shot away down the road like an arrow.

CHAPTER XIII

Riding swift on his errands

On the bit-gripping steed.

SONG OF ATLI.

Though reared on the iron coast of Northern Norway, Olvir Thorbiornson had coursed more than one good horse over the flat shores of Jutland and Frisia. What was no less to his present advantage, he held clearly in mind all that Otkar Jotuntop had told him, in his childhood, of the emir's red racers of the desert. Yet, confident as he felt of Zora's endurance, throughout the first day's ride he restrained his desire to course at full speed, and held the willing mare in check. Even a Frankish horse, if spurred, might have kept the road with them to the first night's rest,--at a Gothic farmstede just beyond Périgueux.

On the second day, however, Olvir held a looser rein, and Zora's long stride swept him forward through the fertile country of mid-Aquitania at a pace to astonish the dark-featured Gallo-Roman serfs toiling in the fields beside the road. Even the occasional Frankish noble and pompous bishop faring along the ancient highway could not but halt to stare, with gaping mouth, as the bright Northman shot past them on the red mare.

It might be that they would first catch sight of the rider in the distance, attracted by the sun-rays glittering on his mail and helmet. Then he would be rushing upon them, and they would draw aside to see him pass. Scarcely a glance would they have as horse and rider dashed by; but it was a glance not soon to be forgotten,--the rider, with the sun glinting on his war-gear and jewelled sword, staring eagerly ahead along the road; the red mare, with outstretched head and trumpet nostrils, sweeping over the ground with long, easy strides.

But not all saw the king's messenger so. Now and then Olvir leaped from the small Arab saddle and ran beside Zora, lightly as a deer, his hand upon her withers. The change rested both mare and rider, and slackened the pace but little. A hunter who could boast of having run down the grey wolf afoot in fair chase was not apt to lag in the pace with a hand on his horse. Another aid to Zora was the fair condition of the main route across the rich province. Before the king had marched south, the counts of Aquitania, spurred to unwonted activity by the prospect of his coming, had put both highroad and bridges in moderately good repair.

So it chanced that, shortly before sunset, Olvir halted for the night at a monastery a round ninety miles from where he had mounted at dawn. The sight of the warlike rider as he rode through their gates brought the black-robed Benedictines flocking about him with hospitable greetings; and when Olvir showed the king's signet, the abbot himself sought the privilege of kissing the royal ring.

But Olvir declined the wassail-feast with which the silk-clad priest would have honored him. Instead, he groomed Zora with his own hands, and, having eaten as plain and scanty a meal as he had doled out for the mare, he withdrew at once to a common bed in the hospice.

Dawn found Zora munching the last of her measure of barley from the stone manger, while her master, his hunger already satisfied by a share of the porter's breakfast, paced up and down the monastery court to rid himself of the stiffness yet lingering in his joints. At the first ray of sunrise, master and mare were passing out through the gates, leaving the porter to mumble his blessing over the handful of silver pennies which had fallen from the rider's hand.

The morning was yet early when, without stopping, Olvir rode past beneath the turreted walls of Poitiers, and noon found the red mare racing over the plains of Touraine. From both Otkar and Roland, Olvir had heard the tale of the fateful battle in which the Hammer of the Franks had shattered the victorious hordes of Saracen invaders. Only forty-six years had passed since that terrible slaughter of the Moslemah, and as Zora coursed along the smooth highway which stretched across the wide scene of the struggle, her rider's glance rested on luxuriant fields where the serfs yet ploughed up fragments of outland war-gear from the blood-drenched soil.

The young Northman was, however, less impressed by the thought of the great battle than by the grand monuments of the ancient Roman occupancy,--the lofty towers and walls, massive arched bridges and aqueducts which, where uninjured by man, still stood about the land, huge and uncrumbling after centuries of use. Often as Otkar had described to him the buildings of the old Romans, Olvir found himself staring at them in no little astonishment and wonder. His learning, however, spared him the awe which would have been felt by his simpler countrymen or the forest-dwelling Saxons, among whom the mighty stone burgs and aqueducts were commonly regarded as the works of giants.

The interest of the king's messenger was at last drawn from these Roman structures to the rapidly increasing numbers of wayfarers, journeying like himself to the north. Every class of society was represented, from counts and mitred bishops, travelling with princely retinues, to wretched poor folk, forced into a life of wandering and beggary by the ever-increasing oppression of brutal lords.

In the well-tilled fields which bordered the highway, Olvir could see numbers of toiling husbandmen, part of the fifteen thousand and odd serfs owned by the Abbey of Saint Martin. Here was Christianity exemplified,--the priests of the rueful White Christ sitting in purple and cloth of gold, while their fellowmen sweated and slaved to bring them wealth! The thought filled Olvir with such loathing that when he crossed the Cher and approached Tours, in the thick of the crowd, it was all he could do to bring himself to accept the hospitality of the famous abbey. Nor was his aversion to his monkish hosts lessened when the almoner, overflowing with pride for his monastery, insisted upon showing the king's messenger all the treasures of the church and shrine.

The gold-wrought hangings and the screens of brass and precious metals, the silver candelabra and the gemmed images, at first half dazzled the unaccustomed eyes of the Northman. But while those black eyes glistened with wonder and admiration of so many precious and beautiful things, the lip beneath curled in scorn of the manner in which the hoard had been gathered, and of the images, to which devout worshippers were offering praise and adoration, alike sanctioned and commended by the Bishop of Rome.

"By the Beard!" muttered Olvir, in Arabic; "and these folk call the Saracens pagans!"

The outlying buildings of the monastery, where monks in short-skirted working frocks plied various trades and handicrafts, tended somewhat to lessen the Northman's scorn of the woman-clad priests. But in the morning he gave to the almoner the exact amount which he thought his lodging was worth, and rode on his way, glad to leave behind him the shuffling black figures, the tinkling bells, and the melancholy chants.

Once on the road again, all bitterness soon passed from Olvir's mind. The day was fair, the road smooth, and already Zora's steel limbs had borne him far on his journey. He cried aloud in sheer gladness of heart, and from the pouch which the king's own hand had fastened to his saddle he flung a fistful of pennies to the rabble of pilgrims by the wayside. Then Zora lengthened her stride; and the wind whistled in his ears a song of hope and love.

And so Aquitania was left to the south, and the king's messenger rode up the Loire's right bank into Neustria, where were to be seen more Franks and no Goths, but still a vast body of subject Gallo-Romans. Swiftly as he passed, Olvir saw much of the beautiful land, whose tilled fields were interspersed with woodlands and meadows. Yet pleasant as was the land to the eye, Olvir observed that the few Frankish husbandmen whom he passed differed little in dress and bearing from the dark-haired serfs. What hope for the future could the free Franks hold, when even the iron rule of their mightiest king could not shield them from the greed and rapacity of their lords?

But Olvir had little commiseration to waste on Christian freemen. Why did they not stand to their ancient rights, like the Norse commonfolk, and cut off the heads of all lawbreakers, whether thralls or kings? With a scornful smile he put the weaklings from his thoughts, and sped on across Neustria as he had sped across Aquitania.

As he approached Paris, Olvir began to fear that Zora's hoofs would soon crack from the continual beating on the hard roads. So he sought out the most noted ironsmith in the city, and he and Zora lodged that night in the hovel of the low-born sledge-wielder.

Never had Zora been groomed as she was groomed by the smith that night and in the morning; and when it came to the shoeing, one would have thought the mare a queen, with such care and delicacy did the man fit on the light iron running shoes. While he then spent the forenoon in yet more grooming, Olvir took a stroll into the city. He found gardens and convents, hovels and palaces, spread over all the Island of Notre Dame and along both banks of the Seine opposite. Undeterred by the narrowness and filth of the streets, he crossed the ancient Roman bridge to the island, and visited the palaces of Clovis and Julian the Apostate, and the great domchurches of Saint Genevieve and Saint Merdicus.

Noon, however, saw the king's messenger not only back at the hut, but ready for the road. He had found Zora sleek as silk and bright-eyed, eager to start. When he mounted he said nothing of pay; but the smith bowed and smiled, and wished the princely king's rider a hearty God-speed. Smiling in turn, Olvir put his hand to one of the gold spirals on his left arm; and when the smith, who had not heeded the quick movement, grasped the Northman's hand, he felt an angular piece of heavy metal pressed into his palm. The giver's hand was withdrawn, and the smith stood gaping at the lump of yellow gold that was worth more than his forge and his home and all else he possessed, though he threw in the very shirt upon his back.

Before the man could recover wit enough to cry out his thanks, Olvir was riding away down the crooked street. It was the hour when most of the Franks were seeking the customary noon-rest, and there were few folk abroad to admire and wonder at the king's messenger as he threaded the narrow ways and passed over the Roman bridges to the north bank. Before long Zora bore him through the main gate of the suburban walls, and galloped away on the road to Mayence.

A short ride to the Convent of Chelles on the Marne, where Olvir delivered a message to the abbess for young Gisela, the king's sister; then Zora was given free rein. The Frankish smith had shod the mare so skilfully that she at once fell into her stride, and the race swept on across Neustria, north and east into Austrasia.

Day after day Zora held on at coursing speed, never faltering, her steel limbs seemingly tireless. But now the roads were rougher, and more than one bridge was missing. Twice horse and rider were carried down from treacherous fords, and once Zora sank in a bog. Neither master nor mare, however, met with injury; and, despite all hindrance, the long miles melted swiftly away before the mare's easy swinging stride.

And so the king's messenger sped through Austrasia, where corners of ancient forest yet stood unhewn, and few men tilled the fields who could not show visible proof of Germanic blood. From Rheims to Treves, Treves to Mayence, thence across the Rhine, and along the Thuringian trade-route which led up the Main and on into the primeval forest,--these were the last stages of the great race.

But the king's messenger was spared at least one day of his expected journeying. At Mayence he learned that Count Rudulf had lately been staying at the Monastery of Fulda, and that it was possible the old hero had not yet returned to his mark.

When, midmorning of the next day, Olvir came at last to Fulda, he found that great centre of civilization in the heart of the beech-wood vastly different from the gilded abbey of Tours, with its slaves and precious hoard. The rude mass of log structures was a very beehive of skilled workers,--sturdy brothers of Northern blood, who found it more to their liking to toil at husbandry and the handicrafts, or to practise with the pen and study the seven liberal arts, than to chant the dirge-like hymns of Holy Church.

Above all was Olvir drawn to Abbot Sturm, whose manly and dignified welcome of the king's messenger all but conquered the young man's aversion to Christian priests. Not all the bluff old abbot's urgings, however, could hold Olvir over the day, when he learned that Rudulf and his Wend wife had gone to the count's homestede in the adjoining shire.

Again Zora stretched out her lean neck, and raced away down the forest road. By midday she had reached the journey's end. On a rocky knoll, close by the Fulda's bank, stood Rudulf's burg,--a walled enclosure in which were grouped the hall and bower and outbuildings familiar to the Norse eye, and, beside all these, the rude stone keep of the Franks and Southern Saxons, adopted centuries since in imitation of the Roman tower.

CHAPTER XIV

When a wolf thou wert

Out in the wildwood.

LAY OF HELGI.

When Olvir entered the open gateway of the burg, no sign of life was to be seen within, other than the thin streamers of smoke rising through the roof-hole of the hall and the high narrow windows of the keep. Not even a hound ran forward to bay at the stranger. Olvir felt little surprise, however, as it was the hour for the Frankish noon-rest. Seeing that the great red and blue mottled door of the keep was ajar, he sprang off before it, and entered, Zora at his heels.

The intruder at once found himself within a gloomy apartment, only half lighted by the flickering of a small fire. Close by the hearth, on the side nearest to the entrance, crouched a woman, at play with several weasels. She was chanting to them in a tongue unknown to Olvir; and as she droned the refrain, the weasels ran up and down her extended arms.

Olvir caught only a glimpse of the strange play. Before he had ceased blinking from the sudden change out of the sun-glare into the dim-lit interior, the woman had become aware of his presence. A low hiss brought the weasels clustering about her neck, and she glided silently away into the gloom beyond the fire.

"I have known warmer guest-cheer," muttered Olvir; and he advanced to seat himself on the bench beside which the woman had been crouching. As he took the seat he heard a dull grinding on his left, and, looking closer, saw the outlines of a man. He touched the fire with his foot, and the upleaping flames lighted the room with a ruddy flare. It showed to Olvir a grisly warrior, bending over a newly forged sword-blade.

The worker was not unusually big as men went in the North; but he was lean and sinewy, and his bristling grey hair and beard well matched the wolf-hide slung across his shoulders. Except for the fleshy but pointed nose, his face was covered to the eyes by its shaggy beard, and the grey bristles grew low down on his forehead, close upon the overhanging brows. Most startling of all were the man's eyes, long and narrow, and set in oblique sockets. One glance at them was enough to tell Olvir why Count Amalwin had called Rudulf of Thuringia the "Grey Wolf." As he looked and wondered, Olvir's thoughts flew even farther afield, and there came into his mind the memory of Floki's bitter words against this forest hero's daughter. If the father so clearly looked the werwolf, might not the maiden--? But he put the disquieting thought from him, and sat calmly facing the fire.

For a while the silence continued unbroken. Then Count Rudulf flung the sword-blade aside, and turned his slit eyes upon the stranger.

"Guest, or tidings-bearer?" he asked in a harsh voice.

"No guest," replied Olvir.

"What tidings?"

"Word from the king--and more."

"Heu!" growled Rudulf; "I thought as much,--a court-man; and yet such mail-- You ride a shapely mare."

"There are worse."

"She is lean. You rode hard."

"Twelve days since, she drank from the Garonne at Casseneuil."

The Thuringian shifted on his bench and peered at Olvir with narrowing eyes.

"Liars are abhorred alike by Odin and the White Christ."

"Here is the king's message, sealed with his great seal. Doubtless Fulrad, Keeper of the Seal, noted the date of sending," replied Olvir, coolly; and he held out the folded parchment.

Rudulf took the message in a hairy fist, and stared at the barbarous Latin of the address.

"Open and read," said Olvir.

"How--am I a monk? That shall wait a while. You spoke of other tidings."

"I come as your daughter's wooer."

Rudulf laughed derisively, and surveyed Olvir from helmet to buskin.

"A gay bird of the South," he sneered. "He had best wing it home again. The North is cold for such."

"The gerfalcon soars over the ice-fells," rejoined Olvir.

"Gerfalcon--gerfalcon!" muttered Rudulf, in an altered tone. "It may be! But hearken, my gay king's rider. Falcon or sparrow, you had best be winging southward. I have broken the backs of two Saxon and three Sorb champions, and my strength is still with me. Fastrada, my daughter, goes to no man who cannot best me at my chosen game."

Olvir silently laid aside his helmet and unclasped his mail-serk.

"I am ready," he said.

But Rudulf shook his grisly head.

"It were a pity to mar so shapely a child," he muttered. "Do not be rash, boy. I have never but once been thrown, and that by the greatest of heroes, Otkar the Dane."

At that name, the terrible weariness which deadened Olvir's nerves fell away, and left him a-tingle with life and power.