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.