Olvir, however, did not join in the mad rush. With a word of assurance

to Rothada, he freed his hold of her and plucked an arrow from his

quiver. With the twang of the bow the grey leader of the wolf-pack

uttered a yell and leaped high in the air, pierced through and through

by the Norse arrow. Even as the beast fell dying, Olvir was back at

Rothada's side, and his arm linked in hers with a grip of steel.

"Ho, dear heart!" he cried cheerily; "now will Odin's dogs whet their

fangs on the bones of their leader, while we race away up the

ice-street. Bend now--yet farther! The others outstrip us."

"Christ save us!" gasped Rothada, despairingly.

Olvir's face contracted with a pang of keenest anguish; but his voice

rang out almost gaily: "How now, king's daughter; where is your trust?

No wolf should overtake us though we had ten leagues to cover."

"I trust my hero!" replied the girl, and the words gave added force to

the Northman's swift strokes. But as he whirled his precious charge

away from the silent pursuers, the dismal howling in the forest ahead

swelled out with fearful distinctness.

Louder and yet louder resounded the yelling chorus, until the air

quivered with the hideous din, and even Liutrad faltered, half fearing

to advance. But then Olvir shot forward in the lead, and his call rang

out bold and clear: "On! on, wolf-racers! We outstrip the chase! At

yonder bend we 'll know the worst,--beyond is the howling pack. If we

cannot pass, turn in to the cleft oak on the point. Its boughs will

house us safe from Greyleg."

"We follow, ring-breaker!" shouted Liutrad, and all dashed on at racing

speed, their hearts leaping with renewed hope. Every stroke left the

grim pursuers farther to the rear.

But now they were sweeping around the river's bend, and the outcry

before them rose to a deafening clamor. Dreadful as was the sound, it

yet failed to prepare them for the scene that burst upon their startled

gaze. Even Olvir's face whitened, and his lips moved in quick prayer.

A little way beyond the bend, the river's bank and the ice-edge was

black with a dense mass of wolves, yelling and fighting and tearing at

the snow in mad frenzy.

"God save us! they 're werwolves!" cried Gerold.

Hildegarde turned her despairing gaze about till it rested on young

Karl.

"To the oak! to the oak, brother!" she screamed. "Save my boy!"

But Olvir pointed ahead with a forceful gesture: "Hold, fools! Follow

me on! We'll dash by the mad fiends. Beyond is safety!"

Again the sea-king's words brought hope to his companions. Swifter than

ever their skate-blades spurned the glassy surface, and they swept on

around the bend at their utmost speed.

Such was the frenzy of the wolves in their weird saturnalia that at

first they failed to heed the swiftly approaching skaters. But as the

fugitives came flying past, the young wolves on the edge of the pack

sighted the quarry, and yelled out the view-cry. Another moment, and

the whole pack was swarming down the bank and out upon the ice, to head

off the quarry.

So swiftly, however, were the skaters skimming past that all but a few

of the foremost wolves were hopelessly outdistanced. Only a dozen or so

of those farthest upstream succeeded in coming near the fugitives, and

even of these the leader alone came within fair distance for the quarry

leap. With a yell, the beast crouched, and flung himself at Hildegarde;

but at the same instant Liutrad swerved aside with his charges, and

Gerold, driving along a few paces behind the Northman, straightened up

and cast his heavy boar-spear through the body of the leaping beast.

In a twinkling the Swabian had whirled young Karl past the writhing,

snarling brute, and all were echoing the boy's shrill cry of triumph.

Though the wolf-pack yelled at their very heels, every hungry fang was

now behind them.

"God be praised!" gasped Hildegarde. "The worst is past."

"We go free!" echoed Gerold, panting yet joyful; "we go free, out of

their very jaws! Let the cheated fiends follow in their place!"

But Olvir was silent, and his glance shifted uneasily from the horde of

yelling pursuers to the maiden at his side. There was little exultation

in his tense white face. One peril had been passed, but another now

threatened. Rothada was gasping for breath. Notwithstanding his aid,

she was almost outdone. Her strokes faltered, and Olvir could feel the

wild throbbing of her heart. Though she made no complaint, he saw that

the strain was more than she could bear. His despairing gaze glanced

from the oak-tops to the lowering sky.

"Not that! not that!" he muttered. "Already the storm is upon us. She

would perish of cold on the shelterless boughs before Floki comes. By

Thor, we hold our own with the wood-fiends! Could we keep to the pace a

little longer-- Yet I cannot bear her up alone!"

"Ah, Olvir!" gasped Rothada, "my strength fails; I can go no farther.

Loose me; loose me, and save the others, dearest! I but drag you

back--to death!"

Olvir gazed down upon the girl, his dark eyes misty with infinite love

and tenderness; and with the soul-calm came sudden clearness. A flush

rose in his pale cheeks, and his eyes flashed with hopeful fire.

"Liutrad! Gerold!" he shouted; "the princess faints! Skate abreast,

that you may bear her up between you. Soon you may ease your stroke. I

go to play with the dogs of Odin."

"God forbid!" cried Liutrad. "Let me be the one to stay them."

"And gorge their jaws! No, lad; you own the greater strength; I the

greater fleetness. Each to his part!"

"Let Pepin come beside me," said Hildegarde. "He can hold to my hand."

"I 'll drag little, dear mother," replied the boy. "I 'm still strong."

"And I, mother," echoed Karl, with boyish pride.

"You 're brave lads, both," answered Gerold. "Slacken more, Liutrad.

Now, Pepin, cross over to your mother--so; well done! We 're ready,

Olvir."

"None too soon!" rejoined Olvir, and he fell back until Liutrad caught

the fainting maiden from his grasp.

Borne up between the two young warriors, Rothada had now only to lean

her weight upon their strong arms, and glide onwards, swept along by

their powerful strokes. The pace was still swift enough to hold the

hundred strokes gained over the horde at the first. Olvir was quick to

heed the fact, and his face shone as he circled about the others for a

farewell view.

"All's well!" he called cheerily. "Hold on only a little longer, and

you may ease the pace."

Still smiling, he plucked an arrow from his quiver, and swept around on

his daring mission. In another moment he was skimming at arrowy speed

straight into the face of the pack, his gold-red hair streaming, his

face bright and eager with the joy of battle.

Once and again the war-bow twanged, and two of the grey leaders sprang

high in the death-leap. But, heedless of their dead, the pack swept on

over the writhing bodies to meet the slayer. Already the rash skater

was upon them. Another instant, and he would be struggling in their

midst. But even as the lolling tongues drew in for the leap-bite, and

the fiery eyes gleamed red with baleful joy, the mad quarry wheeled like

a striking hawk, and shot away to the right from under their very jaws.

In their eagerness, many of the foremost wolves leaped at the Northman;

but their jaws clashed together through empty air, and they fell

sprawling upon the ice, to be overrun by their fellows.

Wild with baffled fury, the whole pack swerved to follow the fleeing

quarry as he swept slantingly across the broad expanse of the river.

Olvir could have asked no more. Skimming along just beyond reach of the

foam-dripping jaws, he gazed back at his ferocious pursuers with a

mocking smile.

"Follow! follow me, dogs of Odin!" he jeered. "I 'll lead you a merry

dance; to and fro,--a game of ice-tag. So; we near the bank. Now across

to the other side; and as we go, I 'll play on my one-stringed harp.

You shall have music to your singing!"

Circling on the very edge of the ice-rim, Olvir swept obliquely back

across the river. But as he turned, his smile gave way to sudden

grimness, and he raised his hand to his quiver. Then the war-bow began

to twang its answer to the yelling beasts, and arrow after arrow drove

into their midst with vengeful force. Hardly a shaft flew wide of its

mark; yet they followed so swiftly one upon the other that the quiver

was emptied and the last shaft whirring from the string before the

flying bowman had crossed the channel.

"Thor!" he shouted in fierce joy. "We 've played a merry game,

white-fangs; now for a merrier!"

Deftly the bow was unstrung and slipped into its case, and then the

bared blade of Al-hatif glittered in the sea-king's upraised hand. But

as he swerved out again from the alder thickets, he first glanced up the

river after his fleeing companions. Briefly as the terrible play had

lasted, the others had already gained many more yards over the horde.

While their peril, however, was lessening, his had suddenly doubled.

Not all the wolves had followed him in his second turn across the river.

A hundred or more, running straight onward, had put themselves in

advance of the doubling quarry. The foremost were already circling

around to hedge him in.

It was no time to falter. Putting out the very utmost of his skill and

strength, Olvir dashed toward the fast-closing line at a speed that

dropped the following wolves to the rear as though they had been at a

stand.

"Ho, dogs!" he shouted. "Skate to paw; sword to fang! I come; I come

to your blood-game!"

An outburst of ferocious yells answered the boastful shout, and from

right and left the beasts sprang in to meet him. But again Olvir

wheeled with hawk-like quickness. Two strokes, and he was before a gap

in the line guarded by a single grey leader. Once again he wheeled, to

dart through the gap. Swiftly as he came, the old wolf saw his purpose,

and crouched low. But, even as the beast leaped, Olvir swerved and shot

safely past him; and, in the passing, Al-hatif whistled in a slashing

upstroke. Greyleg fell upon the ice, never to leap again.

With a wild shout, Olvir dashed out from the death-trap, and, undaunted

by his close escape, turned for a third race across the river. But as

he wheeled, a great gust of wind came roaring through the oaks, and the

air suddenly grew thick with driven snow. Instantly Olvir sheathed his

reddened blade, and, with his shoulder to the quartering gale, drove

straight up the river at a speed which Floki himself might not have

equalled.

Soon the baffled pursuers fell to the rear. Their yells died away in

the roaring of the storm, and the snow swept between in a swirling,

blinding mist. But if the white storm-veil hid the Northman from his

pursuers, it blotted out no less completely all view of his companions.

For a while he kept on at racing speed, until he thought he should be

upon them. Then he slackened his stroke, and shouted into the white

gloom. No answer came back but the loud complaint of the straining oaks

and the shriek and roar of the blast through the lashing boughs.

Again Olvir shouted, his face dark with sudden misgiving; still no

answer. With a bitter cry, he wheeled to circle about in the dense

whirl. But then the air quivered with the blast of a hunting-horn, so

clear and loud that it might have been blown within arm's length.

"None bore horns! It must be Floki!" he cried, and he drove straight

into the teeth of the gale. The fierce-driving snow blinded him; but he

kept on, groping with outstretched hands. Suddenly a white figure swept

past before him, so near that he could almost touch it. He wheeled to

follow, and at once saw that it was linked in line with other figures.

His heart leaped with thanksgiving. Here were all six,--maid and dame,

bairns and warriors,--all safe; ay, and with one added to their number!

Not even Liutrad was so big and strong as the skater who drove along at

the far end of their line, his massive shoulder braced against the wind.

"The king!" shouted Olvir, as he swung in to join himself to the near

end of the line.

A welcoming hail burst from the lips of the skaters, and as they felt

the thrust of Olvir's tireless stroke, they swept on with added speed.

Even Rothada found new strength in the joy of her hero's presence, and,

no longer contented with gliding, she joined in the swinging stroke of

the others.

CHAPTER XII

Now behold the fourth rede:

If ill witch thee bideth,

Woe-begetting by the way,

Good going farther

Rather than guesting,

Though thick night be upon thee.

LAY OF SIGRDRIFA.

Though the blast struck quartering in the faces of the skaters, the

brunt of its force was broken by the king's body; so that the others,

dragged on by his bull-strength and Olvir's wiry vigor, held to a pace

which lost none of the distance they had gained on the wolf-pack before

the storm burst.

"Thor!" shouted Liutrad, hoarse but joyful. "We cheat both werwolves

and storm-fiends! We shall soon be sitting by the glowing hearth!"

"God grant it!" replied Karl. "Yet you crow too soon, lad. There's a

turn ahead will bring us into the teeth of the wind. Even now we should

be swerving."

"Saint Michael!" gasped Gerold. "We can never drive against this

blast!"

"No, by Thor!" called back Olvir. "Even now we can scarce hold our

own--and behind comes the horde! We are doomed if we linger on the ice.

To the bank, lord king! There's no other way!"

"A hard truth, Dane hawk! Yet it is better to freeze than to be torn by

ravening beasts. _Heu_! I know of a hut among the oaks. To the

forest! The pack runs blind, with neither sight nor scent. They 'll

follow the river and pass us by."

"To the bank!" shouted Liutrad and Gerold; and the line of skaters swung

around to glide inshore. Blinded by the whirling flakes, they drove

upon the low bank before aware of its nearness. Staggering and half

falling, they stumbled across the rough ice-rim, and flung themselves

down upon the bank to tear at their skate-thongs.

Olvir did not wait to untie knots. Even as he loosed his grip on young

Karl, he drew his silver-hilted dagger. In a twinkling he had freed both

himself and the boy, and was springing to the side of Rothada.

Thrusting her skates with his own and young Karl's into his empty

quiver, he drew the maiden to her feet. The others had all freed

themselves, and sprang up together.

"Leave no scent for the wood-fiends! Hold to your skates, and follow

me!" commanded Karl. Flinging his younger son upon his shoulder, he

grasped Hildegarde by the hand, and rushed headlong in among the oaks.

Liutrad caught up Pepin as the king had taken his brother, and dashed

away after their leader. Olvir and Gerold, with Rothada between them,

followed as closely upon his heels. They were none too quick. Hardly

had they covered a hundred paces, when behind them a sudden burst of

fierce yells rang out across the wind.

"God save us! they 've turned!" gasped Rothada; while Gerold gripped his

sword-hilt and loosened the blade in its sheath, in readiness for his

last fight. But the yelling cry died away as quickly as it had swelled

out. The wolf-pack had overshot the snow-swept trail, and were racing

on around the river-bend. For many minutes, however, the king led on

into the forest without slackening his swift stride. He did not check

himself until Hildegarde stumbled and half fell.

"Dear lord, I am very weary," she sighed.

Halting so abruptly that Liutrad almost ran upon him, Karl caught his

queen in his free arm, and drew her close.

"Rest, sweetheart," he said gently. "We are safe for a time."

"A long time, lord king," added Liutrad. "Even should the pack turn,

they 'd do well to hunt us out in this wild flurry."

All the party drew close together, and stood panting, while the

shrieking storm-fiends swirled the snow about them in dizzy eddies.

Soon, however, Olvir felt Rothada shiver beneath his cloak.

"Lead on, lord king," he said. "To linger here is death! Lead on to

your hut."

Karl raised his head, and peered around through the driving snow.

"By my sword, Olvir," he muttered; "you ask what is beyond my skill.

Here among the trees the blast swirls down from every quarter. Who

could guide through such a storm?"

"Then we must wander blindly. If we stand, we shall perish of cold."

"Follow, then. We 'll try at a venture."

"Stay, sire!" warned Gerold. "What comes behind you?"

Karl turned sharply to stare at the huge form which loomed up out of the

snow-mist and drifted by within a spear-length. As it passed, the great

shape swung about its steaming muzzle to sniff at the party, and then it

lumbered on at the same leisurely gait.

"A bear!" muttered Karl; and he drew back to shield his helpless

charges.

Liutrad sprang before him with brandished spear.

"White biorn!" he cried,--"white biorn! What does the berg-rider in

Frank Land?"

"Were I yet heathen," rejoined Olvir, "I 'd say we look upon the king's

sprite."

"It is--it is, earl! No beast could pass so quietly. Follow your

guardian sprite, sire! It leads you to safety!"

"Would you have me follow a forest fiend? And yet, beast or sprite, we

can do no better! Come, then; our guide vanishes."

"Lead on, sire," answered Olvir; and all hurried in pursuit of the dim

white figure. Once close upon it, they slackened their pace, and

silently followed the wraith-like guide as it lumbered steadily onward

into the forest.

Half a league or more had been passed, and both Hildegarde and Rothada

were nearly outspent, when the strange guide swerved suddenly and

disappeared. At the same moment a dark object, broader than any oak,

loomed before the wanderers. They advanced, turning a little to one

side, and there, only a few paces before them, they saw a red spot

glowing in the dark barrier.

"The hut!" cried Karl.

Gerold sprang ahead, and, thrusting open a loose corner of the window

parchment, peered into the hut. The others would have hurried past him

to the rude door just beyond; but he uttered a low cry, and stepped

before the king with outstretched hands.

"Stay, sire, stay!" he muttered in a hushed tone. "Better wolf and storm

than witch-cheer! Look within!"

Startled by the warning, Karl and then Liutrad peered through the broken

parchment, and each in turn drew back with the same look which distended

the eyes of the Swabian. Last of all, Olvir put his eye to the hole.

The first glance showed him a squalid little room whose walls of rotting

logs stood out grimy and bare in the glow of the driftwood fire. The

rafters of the low thatch were veiled by the smoke, indriven by the

wind, which eddied through the roof-hole and sent little whirls of

snowflakes hissing into the flames.

Crouched upon the rude hearth, across the fire from each other, were two

women; and Olvir instantly recognized the one on the left as Fastrada.

She sat with her head thrust forward, gazing keenly across at her

hearth-mate.

After the maiden, Olvir felt little surprise when his glance turned to

the tall woman who sat rocking to and fro on the edge of the hearth and

crooning a strange song, while weasels played about her feet and ran up

and down her outstretched arms. It was the girl's mother, the Wend mate

of the old Grey Wolf.

The woman's head was uncovered, and Olvir stared with keen curiosity at

her black hair and aquiline features. Her dark oval face still showed

traces of great beauty; but age and witch-deeds had stained and withered

her cheeks and caused the once beautiful eyes to sink deep into their

sockets. Even without the weasels, the look of malignant joy on the

witch's face would have set most hearts to quaking. But Olvir was

smiling, half pityingly, at the dread which even the king had betrayed,

when the witch chanced to turn so that the firelight struck upon her

cheek. At the sight he started and almost cried out. It seemed to him

that a red adder had thrust up from beneath the woman's neckband and

laid its venomous head upon her cheek. When he stared more closely,

however, he saw that the snake-head, though perfect in outline, was only

a crimson blotch upon the witch's skin. He drew back with a grim laugh.

"No wonder she hid her face," he muttered. "What woman would not, with

such a mark? But now--ho, lord king; why do we linger? Let us hasten

in."

"In!" rejoined Gerold,--"a witch den!"

"She is Fastrada's mother,--the wife of Count Rudulf. She will gladly

give hearth-cheer to her husband's lord. Come."

"Hold, Olvir. If we go, I lead," said Karl; and he thrust ahead to the

hut door. He found the latch-string in and the door fast barred. His

knock must have resounded through the narrow room like the beating of a

hammer; but though he waited for an answer, all was silence within.

The king did not knock again. Setting down the half-frozen boy from his

shoulder, he threw his weight against the door. Before the shock, it

flew violently inwards, its bar snapped short in the socket. Having

thus cleared the way, the king drew Hildegarde and the boy to him, and

stooped to pass beneath the lintel. As the others pushed after him into

the warm interior, they saw Fastrada start up and stand glaring at them

with the horror of one who looks upon some grisly spectre.

The Wend woman had shrouded herself about in her grey cloak, and sat

quietly in her place, staring at the forceful guests from the depths of

her hood. Of the weasels nothing was to be seen but a pair of fiery

little eyes peering out from the folds of the cloak upon her bosom. The

witch was the first to speak.

"Odin bear witness," she said in a tone of quiet scorn. "It is very

fitting that he who thus breaks in on helpless women calls himself King

of the Franks."

"And over-lord of your lord, Wend wife. Make way by the fire for us."

"I make way for no one,--much less for Pepin's son," came back the

hissing retort.

The king's brows met in a stern frown.

"That we shall soon see, woman," he said. "Liutrad, put this hag from

the hearth."

"I, lord king!" muttered the young giant, and his ruddy face whitened.

But then, crossing himself, he advanced resolutely upon the dreaded

alruna. None the less, his relief was plain to be seen when the Wend

woman rose and withdrew to the far end of the hut, without waiting to be

forced.

Then at last, as the shivering guests crowded about the fire, Fastrada

found her tongue. Springing forward, she threw herself at Hildegarde's

feet, and loudly protested her delight: "My gracious dame--sweet queen!

You're safe! safe! and the bairns and the little maiden--all alike have

escaped the cruel--the cruel storm!"

"And the wolf-pack!" rejoined Pepin, proudly.

"Holy Mother!--wolves?"

"Nor was aid sent us, maiden," said Karl, sternly.

Fastrada half rose, and flung out her hands.

"Forgive me, sire!" she murmured. "I, too, was lost; I, too, wandered

in the storm. Only a little while since I came upon this unholy den.

Blessed be the saints who brought you to end my fears!"

"Why fears, maiden? Should any mother, however much a witch, harm her

own child?"

Fastrada hung her head, visibly disconcerted by the answer. Her reply

came haltingly, and in a tone almost too low to be heard: "Your Majesty,

should I bear--should I suffer for her deeds? It is too much! Even my

horror-- Ah, let her witchcraft meet with the just dooming of the

king's law! She is no mother to me!"

"Ay, girl, no longer am I mother to you!" hissed out the Wend woman, and

she glided around to the open door. At the threshold she turned, and,

flinging back her hood, faced all openly. The twitching muscles of her

sallow cheek gave to the crimson adder-head a fearful semblance of life,

and the horror lost nothing by the malignant fury of her look and the

sibilance in her low-pitched voice.

"So," she hissed; "the sly trull is bent upon saving herself. Having

been caught in company with the Wend witch, she seeks to cast off the

mother who bore her! Let her be content; she has proved herself a

changeling. The daughter of the Snake could not be mother to a child so

base and cowardly as to deny the bond of kinship. No longer is she

blood of my blood or bone of my bone. I go; but, as parting gift, I

leave her my curse,--the curse of one who was a mother. She shall taste

of power, and it shall be as ashes in her mouth; she shall hunger for

love, and hate shall wither her heart. Woe to her!"

Pausing, with upraised hand, the witch shifted her hateful gaze from her

cowering daughter to the startled group about the fire.

"As for you, storm-guests," she went on, "learn that the witch-wife has

gifts for all. To Pepin's son I give toil and sweat and bloody victory.

Joy to the crusher of free folk! None may withstand the world-hero.

Hoary-headed, he dies in the straw; for no longer are there foes to

withstand him in battle. And then I see the storm gather in the frozen

North. The dragons swim the salt waves; they fall upon Frank Land,

ravening with fangs of steel and with flaming breath. The kin of

Pepin's son flee as hares. Thor smites the White Christ! The Frank

realm shatters in fragments!"

"Hold, fiend-wife!" roared Karl; and he turned threateningly upon the

woman, all dread of her witchcraft forgotten in his deep anger. But she

met him with a look which even his imperious will could not withstand.

He stood spellbound, transfixed by the cold glitter of her sunken eyes.

For a little she held him powerless,--him, the world-hero, king of half

Europe. Then her thin white lips curled scornfully, and she turned from

him to the others.

"Enough of Pepin's son," she scoffed. "As to these Norse curs, false

alike to their folk and their gods, my curse is needless. The gods whom

they have betrayed will exact full vengeance. But I put my curse on the

brood of the bloody Frank,--maiden, bairns, and bed-mate,--all who stand

before me. May the king's sons never wear crown; may the nun-maid lose

her bright hero; may the fair queen know beforetime--"

The woman paused, and looked darkly from Hildegarde to her daughter.

She was yet gloating upon the two when Rothada rose and came to her with

outstretched arms.

"Ah, dame, good dame, be still!" she cried. "Christ forgive you the

evil words! Turn to Him; cast out the hatred from your heart before

your own curses creep in to wither it!"

"_Hei!_ what is this?" muttered the woman; and she drew back in

bewilderment. Her eyes glared into the pleading eyes of the king's

daughter with a look almost of terror. Suddenly, without a word, she

turned and rushed out into the storm.

CHAPTER XIII

Until that Guiki

With gold arrayed me

And gave me to Sigurd.

LAY OF GUDRUN.

For a while the deserted guests stood staring at one another, and there

was dread in the eyes of even Liutrad and the king. Olvir alone showed

no fear. If he had dared the power of the Wend witch in the depths of

Fulda Wood, he would not yield awe to her now. Presently he burst into a

scornful laugh.

"Thor!" he jeered. "The witch-wife flees before a child,--a fearsome

witch!"

"By the rood!" muttered Karl, and he drew in a deep breath; "they say

true who name Rudulf's wife a heathen alruna."

But Hildegarde gathered the two trembling boys in her arms, and looked

across at Olvir with a grateful smile.

"Dear lord," she said, "our bright Dane speaks truth. Witch or no, the

Wend woman has fled before our little maiden. What need have we to fear

the curse of one so powerless?"

"Here is yet more comfort for those who have faith in spells," added

Olvir. "At the king's belt swings Ironbiter, my father's sword, upon

whose blade are magic runes, cut by Otkar himself. They are pledged to

guard the wielder against all witchcraft and evil."

Gerold shook his head doubtingly, and drew closer to the fire. "I have

more faith in Christian signs. Yet though I marked the cross while she

spoke, and twice since, I say freely that I would sooner face an aurochs

bull naked-handed than stand again before that witch. Thank God, she is

gone!"

"Into the storm, brother!" murmured Hildegarde, pityingly. "May the

dear Christ save her body from wolf and cold, and her soul from hatred!"

At the fervent prayer, Fastrada stared up at the queen as her mother had

stared at Rothada. But when she met Hildegarde's mild eyes, radiant

with spiritual light, her gaze sank again to the hearth at her feet, and

a dark flush overspread her face. Karl, who alone gave heed to the

girl's shame, mistook its cause, and his own face reddened with a guilty

flush.

"God bless you, dear wife!" he muttered. "What curse can bring harm

upon so gracious a soul? But as to that Wend witch, should she escape

the storm and wolf-pack, let her beware the law. Though twice over the

wife of Rudulf and mother of this maiden, I will enforce against her to

the utmost the just doom for evil spells and witcheries. Enough for the

time of the hag and her curses. She has gone out among her storm-fiends;

let them cherish her. We will warm our knees by her hearth. Fetch wood

for the fire!"

As Gerold and Liutrad sprang up to bring fagots from the far end of the

hut, Olvir led Rothada about to the fire, and sought a new bar for the

door, which was swaying to and fro with the eddying draught. Before

making it fast, however, he peered out in search of the Wend woman. He

might as well have sought to look through a fog on the narrow seas.

Though the first fury of the wind had spent its force, the snow was now

falling with greater thickness than ever. For all Olvir could tell,

their grim hostess might have been lurking within a dozen yards of the

doorway. He hesitated on the threshold, and was about to shout, when

his quick ear caught another note than the creak and soughing of the

oak-tops.

"Floki!--The laggard comes at last!" he said, and he faced about to the

steaming group around the fire. "Listen, lord king! I hear horns. My

vikings come in search of their vala."

Horn in hand, Karl sprang out beside the Northman, and blew the

trysting-note. Three times he repeated the call, and then at last an

answering note came blaring down the wind. Off toward the river other

horns caught up and re-echoed the call. The searchers were beating

through the forest. Guided by frequent blasts of the king's horn, they

gathered quickly through the white snow-mist.

Soon the nearest horn resounded within a spear-throw, and Olvir flung

open the door, that the red firelight might glow out into the storm.

Hardly had he done so, when a gigantic white figure leaped out of the

swirling snow-mist, and halted within two paces of the doorway, to lean,

panting, upon the long shaft of a halberd.

"Greeting, Floki," said Olvir, in a very quiet tone. "You come over-late

to the skating."

"Forgive, earl!" replied the tall viking. "Let the king say if the

storm did not burst before the signs boded; and, more, we 've had a game

on the way."

"Saint Michael!" cried Karl; "you 're torn, man,--you bleed! The

wolves!"

"They had their chase, lord king; now they rest on the ice. Only a few

turned back before us. After the blood-game, we spread out from either

bank. A witling could have guessed that you 'd tricked the grey dogs in

the flurry."

"Come within," said Olvir. "The others draw near. I 'll bind up your

shoulder while they gather."

"Let be, ring-breaker. I would not bring blood before the queen and our

little vala. It is only a flesh nip, and can wait. Here come those

whom I outran. Make ready the women and bairns, and we 'll bear all to

the king's burg."

"Better for them to linger by the warm hearth till the storm is spent,"

said Olvir.

But Karl struck his fist into his open palm.

"No! by all the fiends, no!" he swore. "We linger no longer under this

unholy roof. Ho! within there,--Liutrad--Gerold! Cast the brands among

the fagots, and let all come out. Guests arrive; we should have

hearth-cheer for all."

Obedient to the king's command, the young men swept the blazing brands

from the hearthstone across to the high-heaped stack of fuel. Quickly

the flames licked in among the dry fagots, and spread to right and left.

Then, puzzled, but satisfied that they had done the king's will, the

young men followed the others from the hut. As they passed the

threshold, a dozen vikings came leaping out of the white swirl, wild

with delight at sight of their little vala.

In the midst of the rejoicings, the fire within the hut burst hissing

through the sodden thatch, and poured out overhead in a torrent of smoke

and flames. Then the red tongues began to thrust between the

half-rotted logs of the wall; for the hut within was dry as tinder. The

leeward wall soon became a solid sheet of flame.

As all drew back from the blazing hut, a second band of vikings came

shouting through the forest, guided by the horns. Hot after these ran

half a hundred Franks and Northmen, with Fulrad, the valiant old

churchman, at their head, brandishing a boar-spear.

At sight of the abbot, Karl beckoned to him, and called imperiously for

the shouting to cease. When both Franks and vikings had gathered in a

ring of wondering listeners, he laid his hand on Olvir's shoulder, and

raised his voice high and clear above the uproar of the storm.

"Listen, liegemen and vikings! It is fitting that friends should return

gift for gift. This day my Dane hawk has given to me a gift beyond

price,--the lives of my queen and children. Had not the hero turned

back to play with death in the teeth of the wolf-pack, all my loved ones

would have met their fate on the frozen stream. Now, therefore, I

pledge to the son of Thorbiorn the hand of my daughter Rothada, and,

that none may doubt my faith, the maiden shall plight her troth with the

hero. Whenever he has fulfilled the terms I have set for him, they

shall wed. Fulrad will receive their vows."

A great shout of mingled astonishment and delight burst from the lips of

the snow-shrouded onlookers. But all fell silent again as Olvir and

Rothada clasped hands.

So, their hearts brimming over with love and joy, sea-king and king's

daughter plighted their troth before the priest, in the midst of the

swirling storm. Out of the jaws of the wolf-pack, they had won not only

life, but joy.

When the vows were spoken, and the abbot had blessed the betrothed, the

Franks joined full-voiced in the shouts of the vikings. For the time at

least there was only one among all present who did not share in the joy

of the lovers. While all others pressed forward about them, Fastrada

alone drew back, cold and silent, and with another look than

friendliness in her narrow-lidded gaze.

Deft hands had already lashed together spear-shafts and branches for

litters to bear the women; and now Hildegarde and the two maidens were

placed on the swaying seats. Brawny warriors perched the king's sons on

their shoulders; and all marched away through the whirling snow, to the

accompaniment of blaring horns and the wild shouts of the vikings.

CHAPTER XIV

An ill day, an ill woman,

And most ill hap!

LAY OF GUDRUN.

Never had Olvir or Rothada known a happier winter. As betrothed lovers

they were allowed much greater freedom than would otherwise have been

held seemly. Hildegarde often invited the Northman, with Gerold and

Liutrad, to her bower, and there the lovers would sit by the hour in a

quiet window-nook, watching the games of the king's children. Sometimes

the young men and the bower-maidens joined in the play, and there was

wild merriment in the bower. At other times the presence of the king

restrained the roisterers to more sedate amusements.

But Olvir was not always left in peace with his betrothed. The many

churchmen at Thionville, with Alcuin at their head, were untiring in

their efforts to convince him of the divine right of the Pope and Holy

Church. Over and over again, Olvir stated the high ideals of life which

he had gathered from the Gospels by his own reading, but the pious

churchmen had no ears for such heresy. Who so sacrilegious as to dispute

the dogmas of the wise and holy Augustine? Even Karl was puzzled and

annoyed by Olvir's failure to accept the argument of "authority."

But though Olvir found it no great task to withstand the priests, his

position was not so easy when he came to the well-wishers who appealed

to his heart instead of his head. Hildegarde had masses sung for his

conversion, so great was her concern. Between his wish to gratify both

king and queen and his desire to win his bride, Olvir came far nearer to

losing the struggle than through any arguing of the priests. Yet

through it all he held fast to his first stand, even at the times when

Karl himself, roused by the failures of his churchmen, took part in the

dispute and sought to sweep away the defences of the Northman by the

sheer force of his giant will.

So the winter months slipped by, and at last in sunny nooks the earth

began to peer through the holes in its white coverlet. Then the Moselle

burst its fetters and rolled free in the sunshine, while Ostara of the

Saxons came sauntering up from the Southlands, blowing open the

leaf-buds with her fragrant breath and strewing behind her a trail of

early blossoms.

Never had the outer conditions of the land seemed more in keeping with

the quiet joy and peace of the Pascal season. The plans of Alcuin and

Karl for a general educational movement throughout the kingdom were well

under way, and gave promise of speedy fruition,--to the glory of the

king and the uplifting of his subjects.

Into the midst of this peace and quiet the war-storm burst from the

Saxon forests without forewarning. On the very eve of Easter Sunday, a

messenger from Count Rudulf came riding in hot haste, with word that

Wittikind was back again from the North, followed by a host of

Nordalbingians.

Further tidings of disaster were not long delayed. From all parts of

Saxon Land messengers came flying, with report of fire and sword,

bloodshed and sacrilege. The wild forest-folk, Eastphalians,

Westphalians, and Engern, had risen to a man, and, under the leadership

of Hessi and Alf and Bruno, were rushing to join the standard of the

indomitable Wittikind. Last of all came riders from Teutoric, Count of

the Frisian Mark. The Frisians were marching eastwards across their

fenlands, everywhere slaying and burning, like their Saxon kinsmen. All

beyond the Rhine, from Thuringia to the North Sea, the land was aflame.

Such were the fearful tidings which were to bring sorrow to many a

Frankish hearthside and shatter the great king's fond dream of peace.

Olvir's forebodings of what Verden should bring forth had been verified

even more fully than he had expected. It was the hour of promise for

Wittikind, son of Wanekind. All the internecine bitterness and

jealousies of the tribes had melted away in the heat of their common

fury against the Frank. For the first time in the long struggle, the

utterly free forest-dwellers had forgotten the narrow boundaries of

their shires, and placed themselves willingly under a common leader.

Yet, bitter as was his disappointment, Karl took up the renewal of the

war with unflinching resolve to bend the stiff-necked heathen to his

will. Riders were sent flying with the arrow-bode to all parts of the

kingdom, while the king and his war-counts set about the planning of a

campaign in the North greater than any that had ever gone before.

By the end of April the first of the war-levies had gathered at Cologne,

where they were to be joined by the king. The first of May had been

fixed as the day for the start, and on the evening before, all the high

counts sat down to a farewell supper with the royal family. It was only

the king's customary meal of four dishes and the roast, yet the occasion

gave to it a distinction lacked by many a state feast.

Among the greater number of the guests the talk was all of the coming

warfare,--of the long marches through the forests and over the broad

heaths of Saxon Land; of possible battles, and the certain speedy

overthrow of Wittikind. The gay Franks, many of whom were to find

bloody death-beds under the Saxon beeches or in the yellow gorse, jested

away the fears of their fair benchmates, and boasted how they would

return, covered with glory and laden with the loot of the heathen.

But while most of the guests spent the meal-time in jests and boasting,

there were a few who had little desire for merriment. Karl himself,

though far other than disheartened that he was on the eve of the

death-grapple with the fiercest and most stubborn of his many foes, was

in no mood for gaiety. Had not the ravaging of the Saxons been enough

to sober his thoughts, there were rumors of fresh plots against him at

the court of Duke Tassilo of Bavaria, while old Barnard, his uncle, had

sent word from Italy of renewed attempts by Adelchis the Lombard to

obtain a fleet and host at Constantinople from the Empress Irene.

But the king was affected most of all by the coming separation from his

wife and children. Though it was intended that they should rejoin him

in Saxon Land so soon as the full gathering of the Frankish host

safeguarded the mark from Saxon raiders, his affection would not suffer

him to part from his family without great reluctance.

[Illustration: "'Go, Olvir!' muttered the king, thickly; 'go--before I

forget that I once loved you.'" (Page 467)]

Saddened as were Karl and Hildegarde by the thought of parting, their

grief could not compare with that of Olvir and his little princess.

Though the king left love behind, before him he saw glory and power; and

even Hildegarde could look forward with pleasure to the success of her

dear lord. Olvir, however, in leaving love, left all that he held dear.

The expected battles, which lured on so many others with their promise

of blood-stained honors, meant no more to him than an unwilling

rendering of his duty to the king.

"God grant, dear heart, that we meet the Saxons at once!" he burst out

after a long silence. "A single great battle may shatter their

war-earl's power, and end the bloody strife. With Wittikind crushed,

the most stubborn of the forest-folk may well give up the struggle as

hopeless."

"If only they might bend to our Lord Christ without so much as one

battle!" sighed Rothada.

"If only they might, little vala!" echoed Olvir. "But the best we can

look for is a pitched battle, and the more terrible the slaughter, the

more hope for peace to follow."

"That is a fearful saying, Olvir!"

"The truth of sword-rule. But this is no time, dearest, to fret our

spirits with such thoughts. We have enough to sadden us in our

parting."

"Oh, my hero! If I were not so selfish, I would seek to lighten your

heart. But I sit here, heavy with sorrow, while all others are gay.

See; even Fastrada has put away her brooding, and makes merry with

Gerold and the pages, as once I used to do."

"She may well rejoice! War is as welcome to her as to my vikings; and

no doubt she is merry that we are to be parted."

"Dear hero, you should speak evil of no one."

"True, sweetheart; I should not judge even the witch's daughter. Yet

her laughter lacks the ring of that which springs from a kindly heart.

Nor do I like the manner in which she looks at the king."

"Surely, Olvir, you misjudge the maiden. All during Lent she has been

very kind and gentle. Look; here are the mushrooms which she told Pepin

and Karl to gather for our mother."

"Loki,--a Roman dish! Yet the act was to be praised," admitted Olvir,

and he stared curiously at the salver borne past by one of the pages.

"I see it was not enough of honor to the ugly elf-stools that they

should be gathered by a king's sons. They must be served in a golden

bowl with a spoon of silver."

"Do not mock, dear. The cook is from Ravenna, and very skilled in his

art. He bakes the spoon with the food, and if there should chance to be

any poisonous mushroom with the others, he knows that the spoon will

blacken."

"Better trust to good flesh and grain, and leave such dishes to the

Romans and Greeks," rejoined Olvir, and he turned with sudden

remembrance to his neglected trencher.

But his appetite, always moderate, was soon satisfied, and he was

turning again to Rothada, when, startling as a thunderbolt from a clear

sky, the king's voice broke in upon the laughter of the guests, harsh

and strained with alarm: "Bring water! bring water quickly! The queen

is ill! Mother of God, she swoons!"

In the sudden hush which followed, all heard the sibilant voice of

Fastrada echoing the king's cry: "The queen swoons! Run, fetch the

leech!--Kosru, the leech!"

Then all at the table sprang up together, and Liutrad and Worad rushed

away in search of the Magian. With his own hands Karl had laid his

queen upon the dais. About his stooping form gathered the dames and

maidens; while the lords, grave and silent with anxiety, drew together

at the far end of the hall. Olvir followed Rothada to the outer line of

the women; but Gerold alone pushed in through their midst.

As the Swabian knelt beside his sister, Liutrad came thrusting Kosru

before him into the hall. The Magian was deathly pale, and trembled

visibly as Liutrad and Worad bore him forward between them. Yet he had

not lost his power of speech.

"Stay!" he interposed in a quavering voice, as, at a sign from the king,

Fastrada and the other bower-maidens sought to raise the queen. "Stay,

maidens! I would first learn what our gracious dame has eaten."

"What we have all eaten," replied Karl, quickly.

"But more, lord king," called out Olvir. "How of the elf-stools?"

"The mushrooms!" muttered Gerold, and he sprang up to point out the

little golden bowl, still on the board beside his sister's trencher.

Kosru tottered forward and clutched the bowl in his claw-like fingers.

Breathlessly the onlookers watched while he sniffed at the shreds in the

bottom of the dish and placed one of them upon his tongue. Almost

instantly he spewed it out again.

"Ahriman!" he cried, and he turned to the king, his face a sickly

yellow.

"Speak out!" commanded Karl, sternly.

"_Ai_! I feared it, lord king. Queen Hildegarde has eaten poisonous

fungi."

"Yet the silver was untarnished. I saw it myself."

"But listen, lord king," replied the leech, so huskily that few could

follow his words; "the test is not certain. There is a most deadly

fungus, so like the harmless kind--"

"Who gathered the venomous mess?" demanded Karl, harshly.

"Your two eldest sons, sire," replied Fastrada.

"King of Heaven!" The great Frank's head bent forward, and he signed to

the bower-maidens: "Bear her hence."

Out of the great hall and through the long corridors to her bower, they

bore the swooning queen. The guests, following at a respectful

distance, waited without the door, where they could soonest hear any

word sent out from the sick-chamber.

Within the bower, husband and brother knelt side by side at the foot of

Hildegarde's couch, wrestling in agonized prayer; while around them the

maidens and tiring-women stood silently weeping, or, at the bidding of

the leech, glided hastily about in the service of their beloved

mistress.

But though Kosru made trial of drug after drug, all alike failed to

rouse Hildegarde from her death-like stupor. Hour by hour the night

dragged through its dreary length, and Kosru began to shake his head.

With all but infinite slowness, the grey dawn came stealing in upon the

silent watchers,--the dawn of the last day that Hildegarde, the beloved

queen, should abide with her dear lord. As the first red arrows of

sunrise shot up the eastern sky, Rothada glided out from the bower and

came to place her hand in Olvir's. Her face was very sad, and tears

shone in the violet eyes.

"All is over!" murmured Olvir, in a broken whisper. But Rothada shook

her head.

"No, no; she still breathes. Yet the leech has given up all hope. He

promises only to rouse her before the end. He has already given the

drug. I come to call Abbot Fulrad for the last offices of Holy Church."

Groans of despair burst from the lips of the waiting liegeman; but Olvir

turned silently, and went with Rothada to the chapel. They halted in

the doorway, and gazed out over the kneeling congregation to the high

altar. There was no need of word or sign. Very solemnly Fulrad took up

the vessel of sacred oil, and came down from the chancel. As he passed

from among them the soft-voiced choristers sobbed out the wailing notes

of the _Miserere_, and the grief-stricken congregation prostrated

themselves in hopeless sorrow. But only Rothada and Olvir followed the

abbot along the silent passages and in through the entrance to the

bower.

Within the sick-room there had been a change. Beside the couch were

gathered all the king's children, and Hildegarde, very faint, but fully

conscious, was taking the last farewell of her dear ones. The end was

very near.

Fulrad raised his tear-stained face, and advanced, with all the

solemnity of his office, to administer the last rites of Holy Church.

Tremulous but clear, his voice pronounced the words of the sacrament,

and with the holy oil he anointed the head and hands and feet of the

dying queen. Then, the holy rite ended, he turned and went back to the

chapel. As the slow, heavy tread of his sandals died away down the

passage, Karl rose up and signed to the sobbing attendants.

"Let all go out but those of kin," he said.

Obediently the maidens and women took a last look at their mistress, and

crept away to seek comfort for their grief in the chapel. Behind them

followed Fastrada and Kosru the leech, with downcast eyes; while last of

all came Olvir, his dark face aglow with the spiritual light that shone

in the eyes of Hildegarde. He paused at the door, overcome with

yearning to linger inside; and as Fastrada and the cowering leech glided

out before him, his wish was answered by the king: "Turn again, Olvir.

She speaks your name."

In a moment the Northman was back beside Rothada. Hildegarde had kissed

her own children for the last time, and, at a sign from Karl, they were

being led from the bower. She now turned her gaze to the grief-stricken

figure of Pepin Hunchback, and all bent forward to catch her faintly

murmured words: "Son of Himiltrude,--no less my son. Cherish him, dear

lord!"

"As God gives me wisdom, beloved," answered Karl.

The boy bent and kissed the lips of the gentle dame who had been to him

as his own mother; then, sobbing bitterly, he ran from the bower. In

his place knelt Rothada, and on either side of her Gerold and Olvir.

Already Hildegarde's mild eyes were darkening; but she turned her gaze

to the three, and a smile shone on her pallid cheeks.

"Gerold--brother," she whispered, "God has blessed you. Yours shall

ever be a life of honor. Rothada--Olvir, my daughter--my son,--love is

yours. Be happy, as I have been happy with my dear lord. Karl--come to

me--"

Silently the three rose and gave place to the king. He knelt and drew

his beloved into his great arms, and she nestled to him with the sigh of

a tired child.

Then the others went softly out of the bower, and left the king alone

with his dead.

CHAPTER XV

All the field with the blood of the fighters

Flowed, from whence first the great

Sun-star of morning-tide,

Lamp of the Lord God,

Lord everlasting,

Glode over earth, till the glorious creature

Sunk to her setting.

BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH.

With all the solemn pomp of church and state they bore the dead queen

through the budding woods to Metz, and there laid her to rest in the

crypt of the great domchurch,--the Basilica of Saint Arnulf her

forefather. The beggar crouching on the steps saw the great king pass

in with bowed head and fingers tugging at his beard, and knew that there

is a grief which comes to both high and low, which enters alike palace

halls and the hovel of the serf.

But deep as was Karl's sorrow, once that he had turned away from the

tomb of his beloved queen, he set about the opening of the Saxon

campaign with added determination. Used as were his liegemen to the

tremendous energy of his movements, never before had they seen him bend

all to his will with such resistless force. To put away the anguish of

his grief, he threw himself headlong into the war-game, and welcomed the

fresh tidings of ravages which served to inflame his wrath against the

forest-dwellers.

He did not return to the ill-omened villa, but moved the court direct to

Mayence. Leaving there the royal household in the charge of Queen

Bertrada his mother, who came from Saint Denis at his asking, he

embarked with his war-counts for Cologne in Olvir's long-ships.

Yet with all his eagerness to meet and crush the harrying forest-wolves,

the first day of summer found him encamped at the Lippespring with but

thirty thousand warriors,--only a few more than those with whom he had

set out from Cologne. The greater part of the expected levies had been

delayed by lack of forage and by the all but impassable morasses which

covered the land during the heavy spring rains.

Far from damping his ardor, however, the delay and disappointment had

served only to harden his resolve and call out his energy. Already he

had swept across the mark from the Ems to the Weser, and back again to

Paderborn, devastating all the southern shires of Westphalia. Where he

had passed, the Saxon hamlets, scattered through the vast woods and on

the broad heaths, were left as heaps of smouldering ruins. Their

defenders lay slain among the ashes; while all others of their

inhabitants whom the Franks could take thrall--man and woman and

child--were being dragged away to exile and slavery in the South.

Had the forces of Wittikind been united, even so great a leader as Karl

could not have thus harried the land unchecked. But the Frisians were

yet making their way around the north of the Teutoburger Wald, and Bruno

and Hessi had marched with their tribesmen, the Eastphalians and Engern,

to foray along the northern borders of Thuringia. So, with only his

Westphalians and Nordalbingians, Wittikind, no less wily than intrepid,

had withdrawn into the hills which form the southern termination of the

Teutoburger Wald, and awaited attack near where the Roman Varus perished

with his legions. Though his host was smaller than the Frank's, it held

the vantage of position.

Before he learned of the delayed levies, the king had sent Olvir into

Thuringia, to aid Count Rudulf against the harrying Engern and

Eastphalians. But when the vikings had marched clear across the forest

land to the Saale, they found that the Grey Wolf and his little host of

five thousand Thuringians had gone north and west into Eastphalia,

worrying the rearguard of the retreating Saxons.

Eager to bring word to the king before Hessi and Bruno could join their

large host to that of the war-earl, Olvir marched straight across

country to Paderborn. But he reached the Lippespring with even his iron

followers outspent, only to learn that Karl had met the war-earl on his

chosen ground, and forced the passage of the mountains. Stubbornly as

the Westphalians and their Nordalbingian allies had fought, the Franks

had driven them back through their sacred forests, and wrested the holy

Burg of Teu from their grasp.

Defeated but unrouted, Wittikind had withdrawn with his host along the

farther slope of the mountains, to meet his Frisian allies on the Haze

bank; and there, upon the arrival of his belated levies, Karl had

followed, to give him battle the second time.

Such were the tidings that were poured into the ears of the eager

sea-wolves as they lay panting after their long chase. Nor had they

rested two days before Count Gerold came racing to the Lippespring with

word of the first great battle on the Haze bank. By forced marches, the

king had come upon the Saxon host before the juncture of Hessi and

Bruno. The forest-dwellers, surprised in their camp, had been driven

across the Haze, with great slaughter. But the outworn Franks were

unable to follow up their victory, and Karl, learning in the night that

Hessi and Bruno were about to join the war-earl, at once set to

replacing and strengthening the broken war-hedges of the captured camp.

The immense host of the united Saxons now outnumbered the Franks by ten

thousand men. The Grey Wolf had not yet come up with his Thuringians

when Gerold left the Haze, and his whereabouts were unknown. There was

pressing need for every man who could swing sword. But Gerold might have

spared himself the urging. The vikings were wild to take part in the

blood-game. There were no laggards when, at dawn, Olvir gave the word

to start.

Freshened by their rest, they swept over the hills, past the Teutoburg

and through the wooded valley country along the base of the Teutoburger

Wald, like wolves on a blood-trail. Even horsemen could not have

outdistanced them on that first day's march. Night fell upon them, but

the beams of the rising moon glinted on the bright steel of their

war-gear as they trailed across the open glades. When at last they

flung themselves down among the alders, to gnaw at their cold food and

stretch out for a half-night's rest, Gerold sprang from his horse, with

the welcome call that the Frankish camp could not be distant over three

hours' march.

But when, at dawn, the vikings would have rushed on swifter than ever,

Olvir checked them. If the hosts had again joined battle, it was well

he should bring his sea-wolves into the field unwearied. So, chafing at

the restraint, like hounds in leash, yet bending to the will of their

earl, the vikings swung on at the pace he set, until through the oak

forest there came rumbling a sound like the bellow of angry bulls. It

was the deep battle-note of the Saxons, roaring in the hollow of their

shields.

After that, Olvir no longer thought to hold his followers. Silent, but

with eyes gleaming and blades bared, the sea-wolves broke into a run,

and charged hotly after Gerold and their earl. It was not long before

they had burst out from the oak forest and were rushing across a stretch

of yellow gorse toward the war-hedges of the Frankish camp, on the

nearer bank of the Haze.

A belt of trees shut out all view of the battle which raged on the

farther side of the stream; but above the dull rumble of the Saxon

shield-roar sounded the furious shouts of the Franks, the harsh braying

of horns, the shrilling of the Saxon fifes, and the terrific clash of

shields and helmets struck by the whirling blades.

The Frankish host had left the shelter of the war-hedges to meet the

Saxons in the open field; but the ghastly heaps of Saxon slain which

half choked the bed of the Haze showed that the Franks had not been the

first to attempt the crossing.

"Look, lad!" shouted Olvir. "It must be old Rudulf has come before us.

The king has driven back the attacking foe, and followed after, across

the stream."

"If such has-- Saint Michael! Who are those come flying from the

field?--the Neustrians! God grant we 're not too late--"

"None too late for the sword-play!" answered the Northman, his nostrils

quivering, and then, silent as his men, he led the way past the Frankish

camp. As they skirted the war-hedges, the charging warriors were

greeted by a welcoming hail from the frightened camp-followers within,

and Pepin Hunchback came racing out to meet Olvir and Gerold.

"Turn back, king's son! We go into battle," commanded Gerold. But

Pepin urged his horse close in beside Zora, and rode along with Olvir.

"Hero," he pleaded, "let me go with you. My father left me to hold the

camp. What place is that for a king's son?"

"Come, then, king's son," answered Olvir, and the boy's face flushed

with joy. Then his horse leaped with Zora into the Haze, and close

after dashed the vikings, panting with eagerness for the blood-game. As

they floundered across the stream, the glimpse which they caught of the

retreating Neustrians down the bank served only to whet their temper the

keener.

But on the farther side, Olvir wheeled the red mare, and sprang to the

ground.

"Hold, men!" he commanded. "Form wedge. Afoot, Gerold. You 'll stand

behind me at the fore, with Floki and Liutrad. The king's son rides

beside the 'Gleam'--stay! he himself shall bear the banner. Put Zora

and the count's horse in the midst. So; well done! Now for Odin's

game. Keep close, all. When my wedge strikes, it should be with the

weight of every man linked to his fellows."

"Lead on, son of Thorbiorn!" croaked Floki, and the men burst into a

roar: "Lead on! Lead on, ring-breaker! _Haoi!_"

Al-hatif glittered above the sea-king's head, and he sprang about, to

lead his band at a half run through the screening coppice. A few swift

strides, and he burst from the thickets into full view of the battle.

Before him on the trampled gorse heath stretched out the vast disordered

mass of the battling hosts, locked fast in the death-grapple and reeling

to and fro with the stress of their mighty struggles.

The Saxon warriors--Eastphalian, Westphalian, Nordalbingian, and

Engern--were mingled in a shapeless horde, which sought to thrust back

and overthrow the equally disarrayed mass of the Frankish footmen. But

to the left, the Frisians, most stubborn of all fighters, stood firm in

orderly array against the ferocious attack of the Grey Wolf and his

Thuringians, while across on the far side of the battlefield, where the

left wing of the Saxons had been thrust back, could be seen the Frankish

horse, with Karl himself in command, vainly striving to break the ranks

of the mail-clad Danes in Wittikind's shieldburg.

Here was the key to the battle-scheme. None need tell Olvir where to

strike. The first glance had shown him how the battle went. He must

strike, and strike quickly. Already the Franks were giving back before

the Saxon wolf-horde, and even as the vikings burst from the coppice

after their leader, from the willows on their right a Frankish horn

sounded the retreat, and Count Hardrat came leaping into the open, to

fall headlong among the yellow gorse.

Bewildered and dismayed by the call to flight, the last ranks of the

Neustrians wavered and broke, and the yelling Saxons leaped forward to

slay the fugitives. But at sight of the band of mailed warriors who

came charging from the thicket not a spearthrow distant, they halted and

closed up their ranks to meet the coming shock. As well might they have

thought to check the mad rush of an aurochs herd. The vikings, though

still locked in solid ranks, were now charging at full run.

As they swept down upon the Saxons, arrows streamed from their midst

into the thick of the enemy; but they cast no spears until their leader

was within twenty paces of the Saxon line. Then at last Al-hatif swung

up, and a deadly flight of darts and javelins whirred into the dense

mass of the Saxons. Pierced through their half-mailed war-jerkins of

wolf and boar hide, scores of the forest-men fell dead or wounded, and

the wedge hurled forward to strike the line where weakened by their

fall.

"Thor aid! Thor aid!" roared out the viking battle-shout, and then,

with a frightful rending crash, the wedge smashed in among the Saxons.

Fiercely as the forest-men leaped to meet the attack, they were like

children before the mailed vikings, who numbered in their midst many of

the most famous champions of the North. Through the rift opened by

Olvir and Floki, the Northmen followed hotly, roaring in grim delight as

they hewed wider the battle-path.

To the very heart of the Saxon host the wedge charged without a check in

its terrible course, and the ground behind it was covered with fallen

warriors. Here and there a steel-mailed figure lay among the trampled

corpses, but for every such one there was to be counted a dozen of slain

Saxons. Even the savage Nordalbingians were appalled by such slaughter,

and sought to give way before the vikings, thinking that they would

swerve and pass through to the Frankish lines, where Worad and Amalwin

were bending every effort to hold their own. But the Norse wedge

crashed on its way straight for the rear of the Danish shieldburg.

A few more brief moments of bloody slaughter, and then Northman was face

to face with Northman. Here was no longer the formless horde of

half-armed berserks, to be hewn down like cattle by the viking blades,

but Danes trained in shieldburg and armed like their assailants in

scale-hauberks or mail-serks.

As the Danes faced about to meet the rear attack, Olvir thrust forward

through the last ranks of the Saxons, smiling like a guest newly come to

the feast. Protected alike against point and edge by his threefold

mail, the blue steel of his helmet, and the little blade-glancing

shield, he had come through the midst of the Saxons without a wound.

At either flank of their earl, Floki and Liutrad swung their great

weapons with unflagging vigor. At every stroke of the young giant's

axe, a man went down, cleft through shield and helmet; while the

long-shafted blade of the strutting Crane rose and fell with still more

deadly effect. Floki did not strike downwards, but whirled his halberd

with a peculiar backhanded stroke, as erratic as the man's nature.

Unlike their earl, neither had come scatheless from amongst the Saxons,

nor had Gerold. The young Swabian was gashed in the shoulder and thigh

by thrusting spears, and the bell-like rim of his casque had been broken

by a sling-stone, which, had it been aimed a handsbreadth lower, would

have beaten in his face. Liutrad's serk beneath his axe-arm showed a

long rent, where a sword had bitten through to the bone,--the blow of a

berserk-mad Nordalbingian. But the look of Floki was most terrible of

all. His cheek had been laid open by a glancing sword-stroke, and the

wound gave to his long wry face an aspect of ghastly grotesqueness. As

yet, however, none of the three felt his wounds, and all alike sprang

eagerly after Olvir, as he rushed upon the Danish shieldwall.

"_Hei_, vikings, follow!" croaked Floki. "Leave the cattle. Here are

men!"

"Men--Danes--sons of Thor!" echoed Olvir. "After me, sea-wolves! Here

are players. Hail, Danes--folk of Sigfrid! Odin calls you!"

"Hail, bairn! Get thee to Godheim!" shouted a Dane of vast girth, and

he leaped forward from the shieldburg to meet the Norse earl.

"Lead me! I follow--in good time," rejoined Olvir, tauntingly.

The Dane whirled up his two-bladed axe, and struck with all his might.

Even Olvir's skill could not have warded such a blow. It was a

shield-smashing stroke, such as Liutrad was swinging. But it whirled

down through empty air, and the great blade buried itself deep in the

turf. Olvir had flung himself forward beneath the descending weapon and

on past the massive figure of the wielder. As he darted by, Al-hatif

stabbed up beneath the Dane's shield. The champion fell groaning upon

his axe. Without a backward glance, Olvir sprang forward to break the

Danish shieldwall. Before they could comprehend his deadly mode of

attack, two more Danes went down from the blinding stabs of Al-hatif,

and then Liutrad and Gerold and Floki were again at his back.

On one side a little space had been left clear by the opening out of the

Saxons. This was a rare chance for the sharp-eyed Crane, who leaped

sideways, and, with a full-armed sweep, sent his halberd whistling low

among the legs of the foremost Danes. It was like a scythe in the

wheat. The one blow crippled in its sweep no less than four warriors,

whose sudden fall left a gap in the wall of interlocked shields. Before

the gap could be closed, Olvir had leaped into the opening, and was

putting forth his utmost effort to pierce the second rank of the Danes.

Close at his shoulders pressed Liutrad and Gerold, while Floki stood

back for a second leg-shearing. But, though locked so closely in their

ranks that they could not leap above the terrible halberd, the Danes

were too crafty to be caught as at first. Three or four instantly

crouched to catch the stroke on their shields, and one, a skilled

swordsman, thrust out his blade to meet the haft of the halberd.

Neither his parry nor the intervening shields could entirely break the

blow. The swordsman's blade was dashed aside, his shield shattered into

fragments, and he himself hurled back among his fellows, a mangled

corpse. But his skill was not without avail to those beside him. The

halberd shaft, notched by his sword-edge, broke short off with the force

of the blow.

"Faul!" croaked Floki, and, hurling the splintered shaft into the midst

of the shieldburg, he drew his sword--a blade half a span longer than

Ironbiter and little less weighty. He sprang forward none too soon.

Gerold had thrust himself in the way of a stroke aimed from the side at

Olvir, and the fierce blow, cleaving through his shield, had dinted his

helmet, and sent him reeling backwards, half-stunned.

"Way, lad, way!" growled the Northman. Plucking the Swabian back, he

leaped upon the Danes in a berserk rage.

Closing upon their leaders, the vikings now struck the shieldburg with

the full weight of their charge, and the force of the shock drove the

wedge's point well into the opening cleft by Olvir and his

shoulder-mates. Gerold, still dazed, was dragged back beside the

"Gleam" just in time to see young Pepin struck down by a sling-stone

which burst the lad's helmet. As a warrior caught the gold-starred

banner from the opening hand of the king's son, Gerold gave command that

the boy be lashed to his horse and taken back into the midst of the

wedge. He himself thrust forward again, that he might not lose his

share of the fighting. He found the wedge-leaders steadily cutting

their way deeper toward the heart of the shieldburg.

But it was steel biting steel. Once the impetus of the viking charge

was lost, the advance became very slow. Even at the wedge's point, the

movement, though sure, meant for every step gained a matter of fiercest

struggle. Olvir and Floki yet fought as at first; but Liutrad, for all

his massive young strength, was glad enough for a time to give place to

Gerold.

If, however, the viking wedge failed to burst open the shieldburg at

once, the slaughter they had wrought among the Saxons and their presence

in the Danish rear were not without effect on both friend and foe. The

fleeing Neustrians had turned again, and the Saxons, disconcerted by the

viking charge, no longer pressed so fiercely upon the Franks, who

immediately followed up the slight show of weakness by renewed efforts

to regain their lost ground.

With the attack of the vikings, Wittikind, who had been trying to single

out his royal opponent, on the farther side of the shieldburg, quickly

heeded the greater danger of the fresh attack, and hastened to the rear

to aid in checking the in-thrusting wedge.

Slowly but steadily, Olvir was piercing a rift for his followers into

the steel core of the shieldburg, when the Danish ranks before him

opened, and in the gap towered up the terrible figure of the Saxon

war-earl. He had time only for a glimpse of the Saxon's bearded face

and glaring blue eyes; then a blade more ponderous than Ironbiter

whirled down upon him.

Unable to avoid the blow, Olvir raised his shield to meet it. Never had

he tilted the little buckler with greater skill. But his arm was

somewhat wearied, and the Saxon struck with a force that only Otkar

Jotuntop himself might have exceeded. Though the blow glanced aside, it

beat the shield down upon Olvir's helmet with stunning violence. As he

stood there, dazed and blinking, Liutrad thrust a protecting shield

above his head, while Gerold flung himself upon the Saxon. As the

Swabian leaped, he cut fiercely at Wittikind's neck. But the Saxon

caught the blow on his sword, and as Gerold's shield clashed upon his

own, he hurled the leaper backwards.

"_Teu_! _Teu_!" he roared, and he whirled his great blade to cut down

the reeling Swabian. But then Liutrad swung up his axe, and dealt the

war-earl a crashing two-handed blow. Driven by all the massive strength

of the wielder, the heavy blade split the Saxon's shield, and sent him

staggering back as though struck by Thor's hammer.

Even as the Danes pressed in before their war-earl, their close-set

ranks heaved and staggered with the force of a tremendous shock from

beyond. The Frankish horsemen had withdrawn from the battle-line, and,

led by the king himself, had hurled upon the shieldburg in a charge more

impetuous than any that had gone before.

Galloping in the lead of his heavy horsemen, Karl spurred his charger

full against the wall of locked shields. A dozen spear-points glanced

from his shield or splintered upon his scale hauberk. Then his heavy

stallion struck the shieldwall like a war-ram, and burst through,

trampling upon the overthrown Danes. From all sides ready blades were

brandished to cut down the royal leader. But not even the halberds

could beat through the king's guard. His grey eyes flamed with white

fire, and he shouted joyfully, as Ironbiter swirled down to right and

left: "_Heu_! _heu_! Christ reigns! Down with the fiend-gods! Follow

me, Franks!"

"_Heu_! _heu_! Christ and king!" shouted the horsemen, and, fired by

the example of their leader, they burst through the Dane wall in a dozen

places. In a twinkling, the close ranks of the shieldburg were rent

asunder, and Danes and Franks were mingled in a wildly furious struggle.

Berserk-mad, Wittikind turned again from the Northmen, and rushed to

meet the Frank king as he came plunging through the heart of the

shieldburg.

"The king!" he roared; "about him, men!"

With a fierce shout, the Danes rallied and thrust in behind Karl with

such desperate valor that he was cut off from the horsemen, with scarce

a dozen followers. At once the mailed champions closed in on the

handful of riders, and hewed them down with axe and halberd. Karl alone

sat his saddle when the Danish ranks opened, and the war-earl came

leaping for his vengeance. The first blow of his sword split the skull

of the king's stallion, and Karl was hurled forward at the feet of the

Saxon.

In the fall, the hilt of Ironbiter, slippery with blood, was wrenched

from his grasp. He saw Wittikind's whirling sword, and sprang up to

grip him fast about the body. Unable to strike, the Saxon in turn

gripped the king. For a little, the Danes held back, while the giant

leaders bent and strained to overthrow one another. But the Frank had

the vantage of the hold. A bear would have smothered in that hug.

Already Wittikind's face was blackening, when a Dane sprang in and

struck the crowned helmet of the king with his war-hammer.

Instantly the king's grip broke. The war-earl thrust him away, and he

fell senseless upon the bloody ground. Half-smothered, the Saxon stood

gasping, unable to raise his sword. Then he was plucked aside by his

henchmen, as Olvir and Floki came leaping into the midst and thrust out

their shields to guard the fallen king.

Back to back, the two Northmen stood alone in the midst of the Danes,

and so furiously did the champions of King Sigfrid press upon them, that

even Floki, in all his many battles, had never been put to such straits

to hold his own. Well was it the war-earl yet lacked breath to leap

upon them. While he stood gasping, Liutrad and Gerold burst through, at

the head of the wedge.

Ground mercilessly between the Frankish horsemen on the one side and the

in-thrusting wedge, the Danes at last drew back from about the king, and

sought to form another shieldwall.

"They break!" cried Gerold, and springing upon a riderless horse, he

wheeled about in the lead of the horsemen. "_Heu_! _heu_! Follow me,

Franks! Give the wolves no time to turn!"

Rallying to the call, the Franks spurred their horses upon the

disarrayed ranks of the Danes, and for a while all Wittikind's efforts

could not make the beaten warriors stand and face the attack. Luckily

for them, they were rid of the Norse champions, else their retreat would

soon have broken into a rout. But Olvir had called upon his sea-wolves

to stand while he and Liutrad sought to restore the king to

consciousness.

Fearful of the worst, the two stooped over the great Frank, and were

chafing his wrists, when his grey eyes opened in a fierce stare, and he

sat up, to grope eagerly about.

"My sword--Ironbiter!" he muttered.

"Here, sire," replied Olvir, and he thrust the gold hilt into the king's

hand.

"Good! The battle--"

Floki stepped upon a slain horse, and swept the wild battlefield with

his glance: "Yonder, lord king, I see Wittikind's shieldburg. The Danes

have faced about, and again withstand your riders. But everywhere the

Saxons give ground--even the stubborn Frisians!"

"Saint Michael! we win! Why do your wolves stand idle, Dane hawk?"

"We wait for you, lord king, and the Saxons are not minded to press upon

us," replied Olvir, grimly. "Lead us now against them, king! _Heya!_

men; lead forward Count Gerold's horse."

"The lad, also," added Floki. "How does the king's son fare?"

"Look for yourself, Crane," rejoined the viking who led forward Gerold's

and Pepin's horses.

The luckless boy, who had been lashed fast in his saddle by the vikings,

was crouched low over his horse's withers, and his delicate face, as he

gazed vacantly about among the vikings, was white and drawn. At the

pitiable sight Karl leaped up, his look dark with chagrin.

"King of Heaven!" he cried, "have I lived to see my first-born

fear-stricken--my son a coward?"

"Hold, king!" broke in an old berserk, with generous boldness. "You do

both yourself and the bairn a wrong. The lad's now witless. Till the

luckless stone struck him down, he rode beside me, blithe of heart in

the midst of the battle-din. No man in all our wedge cast a dart with

truer aim. I myself saw him pierce two Saxons. He's yet witless."

"Thank God!" exclaimed Karl, and he sprang to fling his arm about the

boy. "Heed me, child--my brave child! Rouse up and draw sword--the

battle's not ended!"

But Pepin stared vacantly into the glowing face of his father, and

pointed to the blood-reddened figures of the vikings with a foolish

smile. "They that are clothed in scarlet dwell in king's

houses--clothed in scarlet--scarlet and crimson," he babbled.

"Mother of God!" muttered Karl, and his eyes fell before the meaningless

stare of the boy. But then Olvir sprang forward, his face pale, and his

brows meeting in a stern frown.

"Here's a horse, king," he said almost harshly, "Mount, and lead us on

again."

"But the lad--"

"Liutrad shall take him in charge. We can do no more for him till this

scarlet play is ended."

"Scarlet play--you speak truth, Dane hawk! But see! Ho, Christ

triumphs! My Grey Wolf rends his way into the midst of the

fen-dwellers. They break--the host itself! Ho, sea-wolves, after

me--after me, and burst the Danish shieldwall!"

With a shout that rolled out above all the wild din and uproar, the

vikings closed their ranks again in wedge, and wheeled to follow their

crowned leader into the thick of the withdrawing Saxons.

As yet only half beaten, the forest-wolves were giving ground with

stubborn slowness, and Wittikind was seeking to swing his shieldburg

around, that he might shake off the horsemen and rally the tribes in a

last furious charge upon the Frankish footmen. Even yet the tide of

battle might have been turned against the Franks.

But then the viking wedge crashed into the heart of the Saxon host from

the one side, while from the other came sweeping a torrent of routed

Frisians, old Rudulf and his grey-armored warriors raging in their

midst. The yells of the fen-dwellers quavered with superstitious dread:

"The werwolf!--the werwolf! Fly, Saxons!--Fenir 's free!"

Thousands of voices caught up the despairing cry, and the whole Saxon

host faced about and broke into utter rout. Wild with fear, they swept

across the bloody battlefield in a whirling flood that all but

overwhelmed the vikings. Like a ship adrift among the storm-waves, the

wedge was carried along in the midst of the flying thousands, clear to

the farthermost edge of the battlefield. There, at last, they made a

stand, and the horsemen came plunging through the flood to join their

royal leader.

As Gerold rode up at their head, Karl signed to him: "Plant the

standard; send the horsemen on. To my side! I reel with blood-loss."

Again the vikings gathered about the king, while the horsemen joined the

fierce pursuit of the Saxons. But hardly had Gerold and Liutrad bound

up his wounds, when the last of the flying host came rushing past,

intermingled with the Frankish footmen.

"Ho, lord king!" called Olvir. "My wolves strain at the leash. Bid us

go. Yonder comes Amalwin. Let him guard the standard. It cannot be he

thirsts to slay his fleeing countrymen."

"Go, then. But leave my luckless Pepin and these bold lads--"

"I'm spent--I stay!" gasped Liutrad.

"I go. My wounds are stanched," said Gerold, and as Olvir sprang upon

Zora, the Swabian mounted his own horse little less nimbly.

CHAPTER XVI

Many a man is brave

Who still does not thrust the blade

Into another man's heart.

LAY OF REGIN.

The sun was far down the western sky when the vikings swung away from

the corpse-strewn battlefield and joined the fierce chase of the broken

host. Already the foremost of the pursued and the pursuers were beyond

view, and for a time Northmen followed after the scattering Saxon bands,

in vain search for Wittikind and his Danes.

But at last, off to the northward, Olvir caught sight of a distant

glimmering along the skyline, and he had no need to look twice to know

that it was the last rays of the sunlight glinting on burnished steel.

"Look, lad, our quarry!" he called to Gerold. "No Saxon war-gear would

gleam so bright."

"Wittikind and his Danes!" cried Gerold. "Saint Michael--this has been

a glorious day! Let us but kill their earl, and the war is at an end!"

After this, those of the Saxons who turned aside out of the way of the

vikings were safe from their dreaded blades. The sea-wolves were on the

trail of bigger game. Yet swift as was their pursuit, night fell, and

they had not overtaken the Danes. Coming to a little brook, they halted

to bathe their wounds in the cool stream and to eat the last fragments

of the coarse fare which they had brought from the Lippespring.

When, after a little, they clamored to be led on again, Gerold spoke of

a stronghold to which the war-earl might be fleeing, and at Olvir's

assent, guided the band by moonlight on that blind trail. But the moon

at last set and left them in darkness, without view of their quarry. It

was well, for even their iron strength was broken. Many had lagged

behind in the last hour's march.

Yet at dawn, stiff from their wounds and half famished, they gathered

about their earl, and called upon him to lead them on across the

woodlands.

When at last, bursting out on the edge of a broad meadow, the vikings

sighted the Danes fording a little stream, they uttered a roar, and

rushed forward to close with the foe. But even Gerold and Floki were

left far behind by Olvir, who raced ahead on Zora as though to ride down

singly the whole Danish band. His followers were nearly a bow-shot to

the rear when he drew rein just beyond sweep of the Danish swords.

The greater number of the Danes were already across the stream; but a

few of the more resolute had halted to hold the passage against the

pursuers. Olvir, however, stared over the heads of the desperate

champions, to the little islet upon which Wittikind, striding up out of

the water, had paused to glance back at the Norse wedge. As the Saxon's

eye fell upon the viking earl, the latter raised his hand, and sent a

challenge ringing over the stream.

"Ho, hero!" he shouted; "stand and wait--I would meet you in single

fight."

"Faul seize you, dog of the Frank!" retorted the Saxon. "Am I a witling

to linger while your bloody wolves come up?"

"Listen, son of Wanekind," said Olvir, very earnestly. "Odin bear

witness--I swear that no man in my following shall cross the stream, if

you fight with me. Let these men follow over to their mates. Mine will

stand here."

"And if you fall, bairn?"

"My pledge shall hold good nevertheless. But if you falter and fail to

meet me, I shall name you nithing from Rhine Stream to Trondheim Fiord."

"_Teu_! It is a bold cockerel!" cried Wittikind. But the flush which

reddened his bearded cheek showed that the taunt had gone home. Only

blood could wipe out that threat of coward-naming. He signed

impatiently to the Danish rearguard.

"Across, men!" he shouted. "I 'll soon trim the comb of this

loud-crowing cock, and then we shall see how the sons of Thor keep

faith."

Olvir smiled, well pleased, and, as the Danes sprang into the stream, he

turned about, with upraised hand, to check the wild charge of his

vikings.

"Hold, men!" he called. "I meet the war-earl singly. Whether scathe

come to me or to him, none among you shall cross over the stream."

"How, Olvir?" demanded Gerold. "Would you then let the Danes escape

us?"

"My word is pledged; the Danes go free. As to the war-earl, it is as it

was with that traitor Hroar."

"You would trust everything to your own sword, Olvir; and yet the

war-earl all but struck you down."

"In the press of the battle," answered Floki, sharply. "Here the

ring-breaker will have room to avoid the Saxon's sword."

"I have given my word. See that you keep it," added Olvir, and, leaping

from Zora, he advanced out into the water.

Wittikind calmly awaited the attack, leaning upon the hilt of his

terrible longsword. There was no feeling visible in his bearded face,

but his blue eyes were fixed upon the Northman in a vengeful look. Had

it not been for the Norse wedge, the battle would have surely gone

against the hated Franks before Rudulf, that werwolf Thuringian, could

break the Frisians.

With a rush, Olvir passed, waist-deep, across the narrow channel, and

sprang out upon the lower end of the islet. Between him and the Saxon

lay a level stretch of sedge-grown sand, a dozen paces wide and twice as

long. With the water still dripping from the border of his mailserk,

Olvir advanced quietly upon his great enemy. Wittikind swung up his

sword, and stepped forward to meet the Northman.

"Come, bairn, come!" he jeered. "We linger too long. I would make an

end of the matter, and be gone."

"The gerfalcon strikes the stork!" retorted Olvir, and he ran in upon

the war-earl so closely that his little steel shield clashed upon the

spiked boss of the Saxon's linden-wood buckler. Down came the longsword

with a vicious swirl,--a stroke that few among the greatest champions

might have warded. Olvir made no attempt to meet it. Wide as was the

blade's sweep, he sprang back into safety as the blow fell.

Gerold and the vikings shouted in approval of the adroit play; but the

Danes laughed and called out jeeringly: "Stay a little, dogs of the

Franks! Wait till the hero's blood warms!"

"The more freely will it flow!" croaked back Floki the Crane, and the

vikings laughed in turn.

Then all on either bank stood staring in silence at the oddly matched

swordsmen. Olvir, lithe and active as a panther, was circling round and

round his foe, every nerve and thew and sinew tense to take him

unawares. For a while he was content to spring in and out, avoiding the

terrible sweep of the war-earl's sword. Once his opponent had wearied,

he would lay himself open sooner or later to a disabling thrust from

Al-hatif.

But the Westphalian was not easily wearied. Far from flagging, his

blows fell with steadily increasing quickness and force. The hero's

blood was warming, as the scoffing Danes had foretold. He no longer

stood in one spot, wheeling to face the attack of the Northman, but

began to press upon him, in a fierce attempt to pen him into a corner of

the islet, and make an end. Even when he stood over the king Olvir had

not been so hard pressed. The Saxon's attack combined all the savage

fury of a berserk in the rage with the cold craft of a host-leader.

Twice Olvir's leaps barely saved him from the scythe-like leg-blows of

the great blade, and once, as he dropped beneath a backhanded sweep, the

keen edge shore a lock from his hair. Nothing daunted, however, by the

swirl of the longsword, his black eyes sparkled and wild joy filled his

heart. Difficult as it was to avoid Wittikind's fierce rushes, he

leaped and thrust and darted from side to side, always just a

hairbreadth ahead of destruction, without a thought of fear or weakness.

Had he given way to either, though only for a single instant, death

would surely have overtaken him. But always the great blade whirled

through empty air, and the elf leaped unharmed about the furious giant.

Twice Olvir had retreated from end to end of the islet, and for the

third time was giving back before the war-earl's savage rushes, when

suddenly his eyes sparkled with a new purpose. Smiling as one who

greets a friend, he sprang aside to avoid the down-whirling longsword,

and then, heedless of the return stroke, stepped forward to aim a swift

blow at the Saxon's sword-arm. The utmost of his skill and sinewy

strength was behind the stroke. It fell upon the massive forearm midway

above the wrist, and the Danish mail parted like cloth beneath the edge

of Al-hatif. Through steel and flesh and tendon, the Damascus blade

shore its way, until it gritted on the very bone. Wittikind's sword fell

to the ground.

The fight was won. The war-earl of all the Saxons stood before the

slender Northman, helpless. Olvir had only to raise his sword and

strike another blow, and the son of Wanekind would have met his fate.

The Saxon lowered his shield, and stood waiting for the death-stroke,

his broad chest still heaving with the violence of his exertions, but

his face suddenly stilled from anger to calm scorn.

"Strike--strike, and have done with your shame, false son of Odin!" he

called in a deep voice. "But for you this day the free Saxons should

have rid themselves of the Frank. You, a Northman, false to your folk

and your gods, have set the heel of a king upon the necks of a free

people. It is fit that you should slay the leader of a broken host.

Strike quickly, else Thor will smite you with his hammer."

But Olvir stepped back, and met the scornful look of the Saxon with a

grave smile.

"Hear me, son of Wanekind!" he rejoined. "In the North we listen to

witness on both sides before the dooming. You have yet to learn what is

in my mind."

"I had rather talk with Odin! We of the forest have but one tongue with

which to speak to traitors; it is of steel."

"Wittikind is dogwise," replied Olvir, and he raised Al-hatif to thrust

the blade into its sheath. "Here is my answer to the taunts of the

war-earl. Odin bids us slay our foe by guile or by force; but, in the

name of the White Christ, I now tell you to go free."

"_Teu_! Is it not enough shame that a viking should sell his sword?

Must he mock an unarmed foe?"

"Odin bear witness--the son of Wanekind is free."

Wittikind stared down intently into the grave, almost solemn face of the

Northman, and his look softened.

"How is this, viking?" he demanded. "Would you undo the scathe you have

wrought upon my forest-folk?"

"The blood of your warriors brings me no joy, hero. Yet I am the man of

Pepin's son, and so must do his bidding. A year since I should have

broken the bond, had not Karl shown to me the need for this bloody war.

Many could tell you what little love I bear the Christian priests, and I

am not one to rejoice at the growing serfdom among the Franks; yet I see

that both Frank priest and Frank king would bring to your land more than

they would take away,--your boasted freedom is the freedom of the

wolf-pack, without order or true bond. This bitter day has proved that

all the forces of your forest tribes cannot hope to check the power of

the Frank. Why, then, drag on with a hopeless war?--why bring upon your

land fire and steel and famine?"

"I would rather choose death than thraldom," rejoined Wittikind.

"Who speaks for thraldom? For a time there would be a double yoke on

the necks of your people; but the son of Pepin will not reign for all

time, and who so dog-wise as to hold that one as mighty as he will sit

in the high-seat after he has gone? I foresee that the yoke of kingship

will then be light, and the Saxon folk can choose for themselves whether

they will any longer bear the yoke of the priests."

"So--now I see. I am to go free, if I will sell my folk into thraldom."

Olvir's face clouded.

"You do not understand," he replied. "Christ grant that wisdom may come

to you! Now go. Your wound bleeds. Yet one more word. Bear in mind,

should you ever wish to treat with Karl, I stand pledged as hostage for

your safety."

Without a word, the Saxon turned away across the islet. But at the

water's edge he wheeled and came striding back.

"Listen, viking," he said. "I have misjudged you. Though you fight for

the bloody Frank, I must own that at heart you are a true man. May the

Allfather soon lead you back to your own!"

"Rather, may the White Christ, to whom I bend knee,--I, who despise the

Christian priests,--may He bring you to the joy and freedom of His

love!"

"His priests have brought us nothing but a clamoring for tithes and the

sword of their king. I am content with the gods of my fathers. Again I

say, may you soon return to your own folk and the old gods of the North.

I could wish you no better fortune."

"I pray that wisdom come to you, hero, before more blood is spilt,"

replied Olvir, earnestly. For a moment after the Saxon turned away, he

stood gazing at him; then he also turned and plunged into the stream.

Midway across the narrow channel Gerold came riding to meet him, amazed

and angry.

"Ho, Olvir!" he cried; "you 're mad, stark mad, to set the Saxon free!

A stroke would have put an end to him and his evil plots. At the least,

he should be brought thrall to the king. Turn back! There's yet time

to take him--"

"No, lad. Draw rein. My word is pledged--Wittikind is free."

"You 're mad!--mad! What will the king say? There 'll be no bounds to

his anger! We must tell him nothing of this."

"The king shall know all," replied Olvir, and he waded on across to his

waiting band.

When, late in the afternoon,--well fed from the loot of a farmstede, but

very weary,--the Northmen came dragging back across the borders of the

battlefield, their earl commanded them to make camp and gather in their

dead and wounded. He himself rode on with Gerold, over the Haze and

into the Frankish camp. The Swabian's face was clouded with fear for

his friend; but Olvir went to the meeting, calm almost to indifference.

As they approached the royal pavilion, before which a group of

war-counts were gathered about the king, Olvir was astonished to

perceive in their midst the kindly face of Abbot Fulrad. He saw the old

councillor nod and smile at him, and then the high war-counts, of whom

only Rudulf was missing, rushed to greet him and Gerold. All others than

Amalwin were fairly drunken with the wine of victory.

"Hail, heroes!" shouted Worad. "What tidings of the beaten wolves? We

were too far spent to follow for long, but your iron vikings--"

"Would that we had stopped as well," replied Gerold, moodily.

"How then?" demanded Karl, rising from a heap of furs. "Did the rebels

turn and beat you off? Where is Rudulf?"

"Each went his own way, lord king," replied Olvir, quietly. "We

followed the Danes--"

"And they outran you?"

"No, lord king; we overtook them, and I fought with Wittikind."

"And won!" shouted Gerold.

"Where's the rebel's head?" rejoined Count Hardrat. "Were I a slayer,

his skull should serve me for mead-bowl. Satan seize the traitors! They

all but broke my own skull with their sling-stones."

"The hero's head is on his shoulders,--where Count Hardrat is free to

seek it," said Olvir, coldly.

"Speak out!" exclaimed the king. "You fought the Westphalian, and won;

yet he still lives. Do you then bring him back in thrall-bonds?"

"No, sire. When the hero's sword fell from his grasp, I spoke with him

a little while, and then told him to go free."

"Free! King of Heaven!"

In an instant the king's smiling face was ablaze. He sprang up, and

stood towering above the Northman in speechless anger, his hand gripped

hard on the hilt of Ironbiter. There were few among the war-counts who

did not whiten with dread as they saw the great blade half drawn from

its sheath.

But Olvir stood quietly in his place, and faced the king with a look of

calm friendliness that bordered on pity. As he met the look, Karl's

hand fell away from the sword-hilt, and he turned to pace across the

front of the tent. Twice he repeated the swift movement, and when he

paused to again face the Northman, all his anger was gone, and in its

place only bewilderment.

"Lord Christ!" he muttered; "a little more, and I 'd have struck my

heart's friend. Ah, Olvir, why try me so? You were mad to set that

traitor free,--him, the head and front of all the heathen cause!"

"Is there then no end to what you would ask of me, sire? The Saxon

reproached me as the one who had turned his victory into bitter defeat.

Have I not waded in blood for you,--the blood of my brothers? I could

not strike down that hero when he stood before me bare-handed, and death

were far less bitter than the shame of thraldom. The thought came to

me, sire, how he was a brave man, fighting for his country. He at least

is no forsworn traitor, however many of his fellows may be."

"You forget that at Casseneuil you placed your hands between my hands.

As liegeman, you should have held my service above all else."

"Not so, lord king. I own to a service above your service,--the will of

Christ."

"Was it His will to free that heathen duke, who, more than any other

man, withstands the spreading of the Gospel?"

"I and mine have slain many warriors in your service, lord king; I am

not yet Christian enough to slay one in the name of Christ."

"The more shame to own it, Dane," muttered Hardrat. "But for what else

could one look from a heathen?"

"Curb your scoffing tongue, drunkard," commanded Karl. "Prudence should

counsel you to silence. There are those who say that the false horn

which, in the midst of the battle, called your Neustrians to retreat, is

the horn which hangs at your belt."

"It is a lie, lord king!--a foul lie! I am no coward!"

"I know that well, Thuringian; yet I have known of brave traitors.

Enough. You will return to your shire when Count Rudulf marches

homeward. See to it that neither he nor the _missi_ have cause to

report drunkenness or ill deeds against you, if you do not wish to lose

your countship as well."

As the Thuringian shrank back before the stern rebuke, Karl turned again

to Olvir, and his face softened.

"I have been harsh, lad. I even failed to hear you out. You said that

you talked with Wittikind before you set him free?"

"I sought to show him the hopelessness of this bloody struggle, and to

win him over to surrender."

"But he would not listen?"

"At the least, I stand pledged as his hostage, should he wish to treat

with your Majesty. I trust that I have sown seed in his heart that in

the end will bear fruit."

"Ah, Olvir, were it not for your pride of spirit, I should look to see

you barter sword and helmet for the cowled robe, as have more than one

of my war-counts. But enough, lad. It is not fair to keep you longer;

go within the tent."

CHAPTER XVII

A may of all mays--

Bright in bower.

LAY OF GUDRUN.

Olvir caught the look in the king's eyes, and hastened to the pavilion,

without waiting to ask questions. A moment, and he had darted through

the loose-hanging curtains of the entrance and stood staring about in

the gloom of the great canopy. Then, almost at his shoulder, there came

a cry of glad surprise, and Rothada sprang up from her father's couch,

blushing with delight and sweet confusion. Wearied by the long journey

from the Rhine, she had lain down to rest after the noon meal and had

fallen asleep.

Before the little princess could even smooth her ruffled tresses, Olvir

had his arm about her shoulders and was bending to kiss her. At first,

overcome by shyness, she hid her face upon his shoulder; but the

ring-mail was cold and hard, and love bade her look up.

"So, that is better, darling," said Olvir, as the violet eyes, beaming

with love and happiness, were raised to his own. "Now you gaze up

bravely, like a true king's daughter."

"Dear hero! Surely I should be a little brave, when you have had to

undergo such fearful dangers--that terrible battle! I shall live in

constant dread lest next time--"

"Foolish maiden! Fear slays far greater numbers than the sword. Where

is your faith in the White Christ? See now; He has given us this great

happiness."

"It is hard to be always trusting, Olvir. But you renew my faith. Here

is joy to repay me for my dread."

"Sweet joy, sweetheart! I had given over all thought of seeing you

until the host returned Rhineward."

"If only it had been a happier cause that brought me! Dame Bertrada, my

father's mother, was stricken down with a sickness which none of the

leeches could ease, and when Abbot Fulrad, compelled by matters of

state, decided that he must come north, under guard of the Burgundian

levy, the queen-mother gave command that I should go with him, to bear

her message to my father. The good abbot has lost none of his liking

for you, dear hero. He was only too well pleased to bring me in his

following."

"He has brought me joy!--But the queen-mother? God grant that the old

dame may yet find health!"

"Kosru the leech will return to Mayence with Abbot Fulrad. His magic

drugs heal where others fail. Of all whom he has attended, only

Hildegarde, my beloved mother--"

A sob choked Rothada's utterance, and tears sprang into her eyes.

Olvir caught her face between his hands, and, stooping quickly, kissed

away the tears.

"Do not grieve, dear heart," he said. "She rests in the joy and peace

of God's presence, where we shall meet again with her when we, too, go

hence. Tell me now of Dame Bertrada. By what lucky chance could you be

spared from her bedside?"

"Another cares for her, Olvir, with greater skill than I can

give--Fastrada--"

"Fastrada!"

"Be just, dearest. The maiden has surely changed. Before

Hildegarde--passed on--she was softened, and now she gives all her time

to good deeds. Even Dame Bertrada has no word against her. If only I

might so rid myself of vanity and selfishness!"

"That were impossible, sweetheart,--you have nothing of either."

"Olvir! But tell me of my warriors. Oh, this terrible battle! I weep

at the thought of the slain."

"Never weep for a viking who falls in battle, little vala. He goes

hence rejoicing."

"That is no Christian joy."

"Christian, but far from Christ-like. I have now seen your father's

Christian warriors in battle. They rejoiced in the bloody play even as

did my grim heathen and--myself."

"Dear hero, I know that you fought only that you might aid in the coming

of Christ's kingdom."

"No, Rothada--God forgive me! I came to the battlefield with nothing in

my heart but good-will toward the forest-dwellers, and then I thrust my

sword among them with wolfish delight."

"Yet you gave assent, Olvir, when my father said that there was no other

way to bring about the highest good to the stubborn heathen."

"For the better way was closed long since! Ah, well; let us put the

unwelcome thought behind us."

"I, too, might give way to grief, dearest. My brother--"

"The luckless bairn! How is he now?"

"He lies on the couch across; but do not go near. The leech has given

him a sleeping draught, and he must not be wakened before dawn. He is

still dazed from the blow on his head, and though Kosru gives promise

that in time he will recover, he must now have the utmost of care. That

is why I must also go when Father Fulrad takes him and Kosru back to

Mayence."

"So soon--but I will not complain. Though but for a day or two, Father

Fulrad has surely brought me joy!"

"I am glad that you are pleased, dear hero. Now free me, that I may

make ready for the evening meal."

Olvir ran his fingers through the girl's tangled tresses, and laughed

with a sudden outburst of boyish delight.

"Be seated, king's daughter," he exclaimed. "Yonder is a stool. Seat

yourself, and I shall be your tiring-woman."

"No, no, you foolish hero!" protested Rothada, blushing.

But Olvir caught up from a bench an ivory comb and smilingly led the

girl to the seat.

When, a little later, Karl entered the pavilion, he saw the boldest of

his war-counts on his knees before the daughter of Himiltrude, carefully

plaiting the long tresses of chestnut hair which fell down her bosom.

Rothada drooped her head before the astonished look of her father,

overcome with shame; but Olvir continued his braiding with quiet

unconcern. The king stood where he had first paused, silently watching

the lovers. Soon surprise gave way to other emotions, and he smiled

half sadly. Very patiently he waited until the last gay ribbon had been

knotted, and then, when Olvir would have risen to salute him, he held up

a restraining hand, and went and fetched a stool to seat himself beside

the blushing girl.

"You do well to be happy while you may, children," he said gently. "The

world is harsh and full of trials."

"But love is heaven upon earth," replied Olvir.

"True love; though earth cannot hold it long. But I did not come to mar

your happiness. Only, I would sit with you while they prepare the meal.

At dawn I ride over the fells."

"At dawn!" exclaimed Rothada, and she lifted her head quickly to look at

Olvir.

Karl drew her to him, and patted her glossy tresses.

"Look rather at me, child," he said. "I go at dawn to bear the Magian

leech to the bedside of my mother; he stays here. I see plainly, Olvir,

that you have had your fill of bloodshed, and so I give you the command

which I had set aside for another. We have taken great booty and a

multitude of thralls, and in turn have suffered many wounded among our

bold warriors. Yours shall be the charge to guard all to the Rhine."

"My lord king!" cried Olvir, and he sprang up to put his gratitude into

words. But Karl motioned him to fetch a stool instead.

"Be seated, kinsman," he said gravely. "You owe me no thanks. It is

little enough for what you have done. In a few weeks I may call you into

the field again--and here I come thrusting myself in, to take from you a

portion of your brief season of happiness."

"You do not take, sire, you add," replied Olvir, his face glowing. To

be named as kinsman by Karl, son of Pepin,--Karl, the world-hero,--meant

more to him than words could express.

Karl smiled, and turned from the happy lover to his betrothed.

"What is your word, child?" he demanded, half playfully.

Rothada raised his great hand to her lips and kissed it, as she murmured

her answer: "Our Lord Christ is very good to me to give me such a father

and--and--"

"Such a wooer!"

"Such a wooer!"

"God grant you fulness of joy, dear children,--wedded bliss for a

lifetime such as was mine for the few brief years."

The broad chest of the speaker rose and fell with a heavy sigh, and he

bent forward upon his sword-hilt, to stare out into the gathering

twilight.

CHAPTER XVIII

For wrong and hatred

Shall rest them never,

Nay, nor sore sorrow.

LAY OF SIGRDRIFA.

The king spoke very truly when he predicted that Olvir's journey

Rhineward would be slow. But at Cologne, the monks of Saint Martin of

the Isle took charge of the wounded Franks, and Count Amalwin came to

receive the king's share of the war-loot. He brought word of the

queen-mother's death and her interment beside King Pepin in the Basilica

of Saint Denis. After the burial, Karl moved the court to Worms, and

returned into Saxon Land by way of Fulda. It was his command that Olvir

should at once join the court, with Rothada and her brother.

So the longships were hauled from their sheds, and raced away up Rhine

Stream, through the fair Rhinegau and past Mayence, on along the winding

streams to Worms.

Old Fulrad greeted the king's Dane hawk with the embrace of a father,

and Fastrada welcomed the lovers with such sweet humility that their

hearts went out to her. Olvir himself could not withhold his friendship

when he came upon the maiden in the midst of the royal children, and saw

how even the boy Karl turned to her as to a mother. Only the most

malicious of the court gossips failed to praise the girl for her devoted

care of Queen Bertrada and the solicitude she had shown for the orphaned

children of Hildegarde.

So it happened that when, in the autumn, the king returned from his

planting of fortresses and missions in Saxon Land, he found waiting him

a merry family group, of whom Fastrada was the life and centre. To this

little group Karl at once joined himself, and, in the pleasant days

which followed, he frequently put aside the affairs of state for a sail

on the Rhine in Olvir's Raven.

Blind to all else in the happiness of his own wooing, Olvir knew nothing

of the report that was fast growing from court gossip to widespread

rumor, as to the king's intentions toward the daughter of Rudulf. The

awakening came to him and to Rothada without warning.

Gerold and Liutrad, who had had in charge the building of the burg and

mission-church on the Haze for the newly founded Bishopric of Osnabruk,

returned to report their work complete. Neither had cause to complain

of the king's praise for their good service; yet the very next day Olvir

met them wandering moodily along the Rhine bank, and Gerold's face was

clouded with grief.

"What is this, lad?" asked Olvir, with ready sympathy. "You grieve when

all others are merry."

"All are merry, Olvir, even our lord king, and yet--and yet not half a

year has passed--"

Sobs choked the young Swabian's utterance. He flung himself face down

on the turf, and lay quivering.

Olvir flashed a look of inquiry at Liutrad, who shrugged his broad

shoulders and muttered tersely: "The king and the witch's daughter,

earl."

"It would be more fitting to say 'Count Rudulf's daughter.' But what of

her and our lord king?"

"Do you not know, ring-breaker?"

"Why my question?"

"Worad says that it has been rumored for a fortnight, and now it is

given out by authority, within a week our lord king weds the daughter of

Rudulf."

"Weds--Fastrada!"

"And why not, ring-breaker? Once I scoffed at the maiden's magic ring.

I was dog-wise. I know she hoped it would win back your love to her.

In that it failed. Yet see now--it has gained her a queen's crown."

Olvir shook his head incredulously.

"I see you still put faith in foolish charms and spells," he said. "It

was no bright stone that drew the king's heart. Though I wish that his

Majesty had been less hasty, I cannot grudge the maiden her success.

She has won it fairly,--not by spell or magic stone, nor altogether by

her beauty; but most of all by the kindness of her deeds and the modesty

of her bearing. Do not grieve, Gerold. Our lord king has not forgotten

your gracious sister. He is giving to her children another mother."

"A stepmother--the witch's daughter!" muttered Liutrad.

"Hildegarde! Hildegarde!" sobbed Gerold.

"Ah, lads!" exclaimed Olvir, "you are unjust to the maiden. I myself

have seen how her heart has changed."

"Changed?" retorted Liutrad. "Have you forgotten the past?--what of

your werwolf? Do not frown, earl. I lived the four years in the king's

hall with the witch's daughter, while you ruled Vascon Land. I saw much

of what you seem to have forgotten."

"Enough. I believe that her heart has altered. At the least, she is

now the betrothed of our lord king."

"The king has spoken. It is for us to honor his bride," said Gerold,

and he rose up, dry-eyed, to return into the burg.

* * * * *

Often as the king was accustomed to visit that city, Worms could never

remember so gay a festival as the wedding of the new queen. The narrow

streets had been cleaned of excessive filth; bright cloths and banners

hung from all the larger buildings, and the townfolk, heedless of the

autumn breeze, gaped from window and doorway at the gaily attired lords

who filled the streets with their armed henchmen. All Speyer and

Mayence and Frankfurt and the country-side for miles around had come to

see the royal wedding. The tradefolk had cause to rejoice in a surfeit

of custom; and many a year passed before the beggars and slaves forgot

the royal bounty doled out to them at the gate of every church and

cloister in the burg.

Yet the giving was not all on the part of royalty. Lords and tradefolk

vied with each other in their gifts to the king's bride, until

Fastrada's bower overflowed with the finest of silks and woollens,

coffers of jewels, and the richest garments of women's wear.

But in the midst of her abundance, the daughter of Rudulf sat cold and

still, taking no part in the gay chatter and delighted outcry of the

bower-maidens. There was a change, however, when, on the morning of the

wedding, Rothada came running to her with the gift sent by Olvir,--a

necklace of sapphires, the largest in the hoard of Sheik Al Arabi. At

sight of the gift, Fastrada's eyes shone with the hue of the all but

priceless gems, and she hastened to fasten the necklace about her

rounded throat in place of the river pearls sent by her father.

The press of counts and officials in the burg was so great that when

they thronged with their retainers into the domchurch, on the heels of

the palace lords and the embassies from outland courts, they filled the

great edifice to the very doors. As to the common folk, they had to

stop outside in the church court and in the street. While they waited in

the frosty air, those more favored by birth or fortune stood massed in

dense ranks in the nave and feasted their eyes on the royal ceremony.

Priests and officials were clad in their most ornate raiment, and the

king himself had laid aside his plain dress for a costume unrivalled in

magnificence by the most extravagant among his lords.

Very different was the appearance of the bride and her maidens. All

were dressed in white silk, and, with their white wimples, looked far

more like novices than bridesmaids. Even Rothada, who walked beside the

bride, wore no gold or gems. As the girlish procession passed softly

around into the chancel, the only jewel to be seen among them was the

great opal on the hand which the bride held clasped to her bosom.

But when Fastrada advanced past her maidens to kneel before the high

altar, she raised her head, with a sudden upwelling of exultant pride,

and Olvir, gazing from his post behind the king, saw with wonder that

his sapphire necklace lay about her throat. Then, as he stood staring,

he met her glance, which had passed by the splendid figure of the king

to fix upon himself. The look flashed upon him like a stab out of the

darkness. In a moment it had come and gone, leaving him astounded and

full of dread. As the lightning reveals the storm-swept landscape, so

that instant's glance had opened to him a glimpse of the girl's inmost

soul, torn between triumph and despairing hate and the old love for her

lost hero.

Shocked and humiliated, Olvir stood in a half-daze, heeding neither the

chanting of the choir nor the solemn words of Fulrad. His heart was

numb with a vague foreboding of evil, and his mind whirled with a chaos

of wild fancies. For a time he pictured himself as one entangled in the

dreadful deeds and bitter fate of the Nibelung heroes.

But when at last Abbot Fulrad had pronounced the benediction, and Karl,

placing the diadem upon the brow of his queen, rose up from the altar

steps to lead her away, Olvir regained his calmness. He told himself

that the queen's strange glance was only an illusion,--that the false

light of the waxen tapers had deceived his eyes, and he was a vain fool

to have imagined that any thought of himself could have come to the

king's bride at the very steps of the altar.

In his revulsion of feeling, he joined heartily in the outcry of the

Franks, and, side by side with Rothada, followed the royal couple from

the church. But during the wedding feast, while all others stared

constantly at the glittering figure of the king and the calm white face

of his bride, Olvir was fully satisfied with the sight of his little

princess. Though he had overcome the dread which had chilled his heart,

he had no wish to meet such another look from the new queen.

The next day, however, Olvir heard with pleasure the summons to appear

before the king and the queen in the bower. Even when, having saluted

the king, he bent to kiss the slender hand on which glowed the many-hued

opal, no thought of doubt or distrust entered his mind.

"All joy to my lord king and his bride!" he cried.