“_But a short while is hand fain of blow_”
—Northern saying.
Over field and fallow, through wood and meadow, up hill and down,
on—on—on—the song-maker strode, no goal before him, only driving revolt
within him.
Whenever road or lane made a turn towards the east, the glaring May
sunshine struck him in the face. Fending it off with his bended arm, he
conceived a hatred of its stare, of the garish blue sky it fell from, of
the bustling sounds it called forth. On all sides they rose in a
strident chorus, chattering birds in the hedges, screaming cocks in the
barn-yards, racketing children on every green, shrill-laughing women
washing clothes at every pond,—even the shouts of distant ploughmen were
added by the breeze.
In fitful gusts the warm dry wind went with him like some romping oaf,
now rushing ahead down the road to beat up the dust with clumsy glee,
now lying in wait around some corner to pounce upon him with snorts of
mirth and buffet him and wind his hair across his face. Struggling with
it, his fury rose as against some boorish jester. He shouted in its
teeth:
“If you had but a body that hands could lay hold of—!”
The craving for combat—like fire it was fanned in him by the dry gusts.
He drew breath sharply when following a narrow wood-trail brought him
suddenly into the highway and face to face with Gunnar and half a dozen
of the young courtmen. If they would but jostle him in their careless
mood—so much as kick up the dust about him—give him any excuse
whatsoever— His mouth watered at the thought of what would follow!
Disappointment increased his rage when—after one look at him—they toned
their familiar hails down to punctilious salutes, and picked their way
around him as around a fire.
His head set low, he was standing looking after them, when another
wayfarer came cantering around the bend behind him and almost rode him
down. He had seized the horse by its bridle and forced it back upon its
haunches before he realized that the befringed and befeathered rider in
blue-and-silver was no other than his small foster-brother.
Releasing the bronze chain, he stepped aside with a smothered oath.
“You elf!” he said. “Erna’s luck will not last you long if you draw on
it often in this way. Take yourself on.”
Undeniably, the elf’s first impulse was towards obedience. He had drawn
in his chin and let his horse carry him by, before he remembered his new
dignity and pulled rein alike on steed and inclination. Like one
adjusting new garments, he thrust out his chest and stiffened his spine
as he turned.
“I must ask you not to call me by familiar names as though we were still
on good terms,” he said. “I find that it concerns my honor, while I am
page to the noble Olaf, to stand up for my rights with point and edge.”
The Songsmith’s impulse towards laughter was strong enough to send a
note beyond his unmirthful lips. Then, as the splendid personage began
solemnly to clamber to the ground, he shook himself irritably.
“Eric, you are not wont to be a fool—with me—and this is a bad time to
begin. Stay in your saddle and ride along.”
Either Eric’s flowery phrases felt the blight of contempt, or else no
more of them had taken root under his curly hair. In silence he came on,
his rosy mouth screwed up to the point of his resolve, and planted
himself before his foster-brother.
“You have got to do one of two things—either make atonement for the
blows I received at your hand, or else cross swords with me,” he issued
his ultimatum, with a circling sweep of his arm towards the longer of
the two silver-ornamented sheaths that were a part of his new attire.
Again the song-maker wavered between laughter and irritation, looking
down at the manful swagger in which the small legs were spread apart.
“Be good enough to say what use you could be put to after I had crossed
swords with you?” he inquired.
The boy pushed back his curls eagerly.
“I told Olaf that I believed you would not be slow in understanding
honorable ways!” he cried. “It is not my meaning that we should really
fight each other. Only that you shall draw your weapon and let me make
some thrusts at you, and then you can make some passes at me—easy
ones—and after that I will declare myself satisfied and—”
“So that is the kind of stuff your new master is filling your head
with,” his foster-brother’s voice crossed his. “If I were not afraid of
losing my temper with you, I would use the flat of my blade on your back
in a way that would not increase your dignity, but rather—” Of a sudden,
what patience he had deserted him; he flung out his arms in a gesture
before which the small warrior scuttled involuntarily. “Trolls, am I to
be plagued by a gnat when I am in the mood to attack giants? Keep away
from me if you would not run the risk as to how it turns out.”
Pressing his fingers to his ears to shut out another burst of
French-made eloquence, he strode on, and stopped only to save himself
from stumbling over the youngster, who had again thrown himself in the
way, dancing gnatlike.
“You have got to fight me,” he was shrieking. “I shall lose my credit
with Olaf unless you do. I will cut your kirtle with my knife,—do you
hear? I will cut off one of your buttons.”
Whether or not Rolf’s son heard the threats or the grating of the steel
against the gold, he felt the sharp jerk at his sleeve, and exasperation
rose in him. Before he well knew what he was about, he had reached out
and seized the boy by a leg and an arm and swung him high in the air.
Only that he realized what a toy the body was to his strength saved him
from dashing it head foremost against the stones of the road-side wall,
and recalled him to himself so that he tumbled it lightly on the grass
instead.
“Well that it was no worse! Do you want to be killed that you try me
so?” he cried under his breath, and turned to flee temptation before the
blue-and-silver heap could right itself.
Turning, he found himself within a dozen paces of Olaf, Thorgrim’s son,
who had followed his page round the curve and sat in his saddle awaiting
the boy’s fate with keen interest.
Not soon enough could Olaf hide the disappointment that had convulsed
him on seeing Eric dropped unscathed. The Songsmith caught the
expression and read it and understood at last the snare that had been
set for him. Scorn brought his rage to that point of white heat where
his voice sounded curiously still.
“You—dastard!” he said. “So that is what you were plotting, that I
should be fretted into slaying the young one, and furnish you with the
excuse of avenging him. That is why you beguiled him into your
service—poisoned his mind against me—set him on me when you suspected
that my temper would be raw.”
No answer came from Olaf’s parted curving lips; only he leaped expectant
from his horse and stood looking at his enemy, the glitter of his eyes
heightened to a white glare. As metal bars under white heat, Randvar’s
prudence lost shape and ran. In the relief from its restraint, he vented
his short laugh, plucking the cap from his head with a fantastic
flourish before he tossed it aside.
“Behold, how much needless trouble you took!” he cried. “Here have I
walked the roads all morning only in the hope of meeting you, caring
never a whit whether you gave me a new excuse or not! At any price would
the joy of slaying you be a bargain. Shall I make it plain that I
challenge?”
As a bolt from a bow shot his fist from his shoulder, landing fair and
square on the smiling mouth he hated. At sight of its marred line, its
starting blood, he laughed again and drew back and unsheathed his sword.
Olaf’s curse cut the short laugh shorter, as his brand flashed forth.
The next sound was curter still, the jarring clash of steel on steel.
Far as sound could carry, it bore the news that mortal enemies had met.
Catching no more than a faint echo, Gunnar and his mates—far down the
road—whirled, crying, “The Songsmith!” and, “Thorgrim’s son!” and then,
as with one voice, “Randvar is not his match!” and after that came
loping back, their eyes agleam. Sweeter than harp-music, it filled the
ears of the men wielding the swords.
Fierce is the thirst for water, but fiercer still the thirst for life.
Parching his veins, it spread through Rolf’s son. Now it seemed appeased
as he felt the parting of flesh under his blade, saw red water rise in
the well he had digged. Now he knew the fiery pang of Olaf’s point
entering his own flesh, and the thirst consumed him anew. _Kill! kill!
kill!_ it roared in his ears above the clashing.
Olaf’s greater skill against his charmed body—it was a fair game. To
leave his heart unguarded that Thorgrim’s son might lunge at the opening
and in the act of lunging leave himself exposed—that was the way to play
it; and he played with all his might, drove home each thrust with
laughter.
Round the road-bend Gunnar came panting, followed by Aslak, and behind
him, the others. At the ghastly glimpse they caught, through
swirl-dust-clouds, of the song-maker laughing like a madman while blood
oozed through every slit in his slashed garments, they uttered cries of
dismay; but he paid them back with jests shouted hoarsely above the
clatter. How could they know what wild joy it was, unhampered as the
sweeping fury of a storm! He would have wished never to end it, had he
not feared betrayal by that oozing blood. If his strength were to fail
before his vengeance was complete—!
To the friends watching him, it was a welcome relief when laughter left
his face, and it set instead in the stony lines of one rallying all his
forces. Gripping his sword in both hands, he abandoned all pretence of
defending himself, bent all his might on beating down Olaf’s guard.
Twice, they saw the French One’s blade reach him and open crimson gaps;
but he seemed not to feel it. Step by step, he drove his enemy backward
until he had him at bay against a tree—until it wanted but one thrust to
pin him there—
Why he did not give that thrust, the on-lookers knew first, who saw Eric
spring forward with a shrill cry and strike his foster-brother on the
breast, plunging into his heart a knife he held. Then their wrath was
lost in wonder that the Songsmith did not fall, only staggered back
against the low stone wall and leaned there, passing his hand before his
eyes as a man trying to clear mist from his vision.
“Eric! It was never you?” he said.
But even as he said it, his glance fell to the reddened blade in the
boy’s hand; while Olaf jeered him over the heads of those who were
holding him back, telling him that the fight was finished:
“You need not to stare at him. It is even as you see; he has betrayed
you.”
No more effort the Songsmith made to maintain his weakening hold upon
his sword. Slipping, swaying, staggering, he sank, nor struggled against
it. If friends had not been there to care for him, his life had surely
passed out through his wounds’ open gates.