CHAPTER XVIII

Such doings for us Are naught seemly to do; To rend with sword Oaths once sworn And troth once plighted. LAY OF SIGURD.

Even in the heat of battle, never had Roland known the wild fury that raged in his breast as he crashed through the thickets in search of his foster-brother. His headlong rush failed to soothe the anguish of Fastrada's poisoned shaft; and with the pain his anger grew more terrible. The thought of the maiden lying before him in piteous abasement, and a savage fear that the betrayer of her love might escape, alike spurred him on. The outlander was fleet of foot; he must run swiftly if he would overtake him. But, no! there was the wretch, beyond the wild-grown hedge.

Olvir stood in a little glade. His face was bowed, and his dark eyes were dull and glazed with agony. Grief and despair almost beyond endurance distorted his face and shook his body with racking sobs. He had loved the beautiful Thuringian with all the passion of his fiery Eastern nature, with all the tender reverence of his Norse blood and rearing. Had death torn her from him, he could have bowed to the will of the Norns. But that his betrothed should have proved false!

"I cannot bear this longer!" he muttered, and his hand grasped the dagger in his belt. But he hesitated, the weapon half drawn.

"Woman's love is not all of life,--I have yet my brother," he said; and the dagger clicked back in its sheath.

It was then that Roland burst from the thicket.

"Ward yourself, wretch!" he roared; and the great Norse sword whirled about his head.

With the instinctive readiness of his outlaw uprearing, Olvir sprang aside and tore Al-hatif from its sheath. As swiftly, he wheeled to confront his maddened assailant; and then he realized who that assailant was.

"Roland!" he cried, and he flung his sword to the ground.

The act checked the Frank's attack. Even at the height of his rage, he could not strike down his foe unarmed.

"Ward yourself! ward yourself, that I may slay you in fair fight!" he cried hoarsely.

Olvir only folded his arms and gazed unflinchingly into the Frank's face.

"The troth of a woman,--the oath of a Frank!" he said coldly. "To my sword-brother I gave my father's sword to cleave my own head. It would seem that Ironbiter is fated to prove my bane."

Roland lowered his sword, and leaned heavily upon it, his great body trembling.

"Take up your blade; defend yourself!" he gasped.

Olvir saw how his face whitened with anguish; but his own only grew the more bitter, and his voice stung with relentless irony: "What hinders the Christian from smiting the heathen,--the Frank from stabbing his friend? He is but an outlander. Strike, and have done."

"O my God, my God!" cried Roland, and the scalding tears ran down his cheeks. The Northman trembled, yet his face lost none of its hardness.

"How is this?" he said, "My friend is weary. He would have me do the deed myself. Say the word, foster-brother, and I fall on my own sword."

Roland opened his lips; but the only sound that came from them was a groan. With slow and awkward fingers he put back his great blade into its sheath. Vainly he tried again to speak; his tongue refused to obey. He could no longer endure the Northman's look. He turned and went away like one in a daze, staggering in his walk.

Olvir watched him go, without a shade of softening in his hard stare; nor did he move until the bowed figure of the Frank was lost to view in the coppice. Then he lifted his sword from the ground; a kiss for its mirror blade, and the point was at his breast. Already he was bending to fall upon it, when a smothered cry in the thicket caught his quick ear.

"What's that?" he muttered, and he stood listening. All was silence. His eye returned to the sword. How the bright hues played on the polished steel! The red stone burned like a gout of blood from the heart of fiery Surt. How fiercely its red light had shone in battle--in battle! Thor! he could hear the arrows whistling, the joyous clash of swords!

The black eyes flashed. He whirled the sword about and grasped its hilt in fierce delight.

"There's joy yet in Manheim,--wild play in Odin's game!" he cried; and again he kissed the blade. "Al-hatif! Al-hatif! king of swords! You would have slain me,--even as that other friend; yet you shall still be my friend,--henceforth my only friend and love!"

But the words choked in the utterance. Grief and bitterness poured back into his heart in full flood. He threw himself upon the ground, and lay face down. An hour passed before he rose again. His face was calm, but there were new lines on it. The last trace of boyhood was gone. He sheathed Al-hatif, and stood for a little while, staring moodily before him.

"So," he murmured, "love and friendship are dead; and I--I had my part in the slaying. Would that I had been less harsh with him--ay, and with--her! Ah, well; what is past is past. Let Urd hold the bitter; I 'll look to Skuld. And now to go. I cannot face those merry ones."

Half sighing, the Northman turned into the coppice and disappeared. A little later he stepped out on the river's bank into the midst of the wassailing oarsmen, and spoke a word in Floki's ear: "Take joy! I 've seen your werwolf's teeth. I go downstream afoot."

Before Floki could reply, Olvir stepped back into the thicket, and was gone. The other vikings, intent upon their black mead, had scarcely glanced up at their earl. But Floki for some time sat staring at the spot where Olvir had vanished, his brows bent in deep thought. At last his frown relaxed, and he smiled grimly.

"All's well," he muttered. "Grief will pass. I see a fairer bride."

As though the words had been a spell, hardly were they uttered when Rothada appeared before the speaker. Floki's jaw dropped. But then he caught sight of Gerold behind the girl, and rose to meet them. The young count looked at him gravely, and pointed to the boats.

"Make ready at once," he said. "The queen would return. She comes now."

Floki uttered a word of command; and while the grumbling wassailers manned the oars he kept a sharp eye on the approaching party. There was no more merriment to be heard among the young Franks. Even the royal children were sobered. Hildegarde, who was leaning heavily upon Roland's arm, looked both grieved and harassed. Close after, between Lupus and young Worad, walked Fastrada, with drooping body and pale, downcast face. Last of all, behind the whispering pages and bower-maidens, came Liutrad, apart from the others.

Roland seated the queen and the children, as before, in his boat; but Fastrada passed by Olvir's boat with a shudder. As she accepted Worad's silent invitation, Hildegarde looked up and spoke half hesitatingly: "How of--Lord Olvir?"

"Let his boat wait," suggested her brother.

"No," put in Floki, curtly.

"Why not?" demanded Roland, and he leaned toward the tall giant, frowning.

"What use, when he has gone?" rejoined Floki.

"You 've seen him!" exclaimed Liutrad.

"Ay, lad."

"What did he say, man?" asked Worad, sharply.

Floki eyed the questioner with a cold stare; but then, smiling in a peculiar way, he answered dryly: "The earl bade me take joy."

"Take joy!--why take joy?" asked the queen.

Floki fixed his stare upon Lupus and the drooping Fastrada, and stood muttering to himself. But he made no response until Roland repeated the inquiry. When he turned and saw the anxiety of both queen and count, his look lost its coldness; but he shook his head.

"There are others here who can best answer that," he said. "If they will not speak, go ask the earl. Ho, all! to your benches! Cast off, men!"

Roland's troubled face darkened yet more; but, without protest, he grasped the steer-oar of his boat. Floki stepped into the place of his absent leader, and the boats thrust out from the shore with the saddened merrymakers.