CHAPTER XIX

Manful they march by mountain dales, Stout of heart o'er the stony cliffs, As far as run the roads before them, Once built by giants. ANDREAS.

Dawn of the day of marching found the vikings drawn up on the south bank of the Garonne; but Zora stood at the head of their column, without a rider. Olvir had lingered for a last word with the Frisians and disabled Danes who had been left as ship-watch. With the first glimpse of the sun, he was stepping aboard his waiting boat, when Gerold rode down the bank in company with Amalwin the Saxon.

Both eyed the sea-king coldly, and Gerold hastened to be done with his message: "Count Hardrat has advanced with the horse; after him march the Austrasian levies. You will follow."

Olvir's dark face, which at first had warmed with a smile of welcome, hardened at the curt command.

"Your king gave me pledge of the front," he said. "I should at least follow the horsemen."

"You will follow where his Majesty commands," rejoined Count Amalwin.

Olvir glanced from the Saxon to his dragon-ships, moored along the bank, and drew himself up haughtily.

"Will!" he retorted. "By Thor, I go where I choose, fellow! If it please me, I take ship and leave Frank Land; let your Frank king command!"

"Do so!" growled Amalwin. "The land were well rid of such an outland wooer! Men call my forest folk barbarous; but, heathen though they be, they hold pure maidens in honor."

"No less do I!" cried Olvir, hotly. "He who says else, lies!"

"It is well, Dane, I fare Rhineward, and you to Saracen Land. Would that Rudulf had broken your heathen back!" cried the Saxon, and he shook his clenched fist at Olvir.

The Northman's eyes glittered, and he smiled.

"Come," he lisped. "There is no better time than now. I will meet you singly, or together."

"Holy Mother!" protested Gerold. "Why should we fight, Olvir? The maiden weeps, and Roland is like a bear in the springtime; but--"

"But all listen to the tale of the Wend witch's daughter," added Olvir, bitterly.

"We would hear you speak, hero. The maiden says nothing. Only, Lupus--"

"Lupus! Let that fox look to his crooked tongue! When the daughter of Rudulf speaks, I will answer. Until then my sword speaks for me."

Count Amalwin bent forward, with an altered look.

"You speak rashly, young man," he said; "but your eye is clear, and--Lupus has a crafty wit. I doubt if you are so greatly in the wrong as he hints in his twisted talk."

"Believe as you choose," said Olvir. "I have had enough of Frank love and Frank troth. In the North we are not so hasty to put shame upon a man. Now, if you are not minded to sword-play, I have only to weigh anchor."

"By the fiend Odin!" growled Amalwin; "you are a proud blade, even for Otkar's fostering. Hear me; I am of a mind with Gerold, and,--a friend's word in your ear,--if you come Rhineward, look that you shun the Grey Wolf and his mate."

"My thanks for the warning," said Olvir, coldly. "Yet it is needless. I sail homewards. Your king has broken troth."

"No, Olvir," interrupted Gerold; "the king keeps troth. I myself heard the command given. Your band is chosen for the king's shieldburg. At the Pyrenees you will be called to the front."

"So! by the King of Skalds, that is another tune," replied Olvir, and he turned to the Saxon with a quick smile. "Sharp words have passed,--it may be mine were sharpest; but none should look for other than snarls from a baited bear."

Amalwin's scarred face unbent in an answering smile, and he extended his hand.

"If wrong has been done," he said, "you are not the one at fault. I trust we may meet again as battle-mates. We are used to duller feathers over Rhine; yet I stand ever ready to welcome one who could throttle the Grey Wolf, whether he wear silk or hide."

"It may be I shall again see your forests. Until then farewell, lord counts."

"Farewell," replied Amalwin, and he rode off up the bank. But Gerold, instead of following, sprang to the ground.

"What now, lad?" asked Olvir.

"I have yet to see Liutrad. Abbot Fulrad wishes him to aid Worad with the lettering. The abbot's scribe is to stay behind with Hildegarde. But first, I would ask your pardon for my coldness."

"Say no more. Older heads have been misled. As to Liutrad, if he wish it, he is free to aid Fulrad until there is need of his axe. I will send him soon. Now, farewell."

"Stay a little, hero!" exclaimed Gerold, and he caught the Northman's arm. "Before you go, will you not tell me what came between you and the maiden? Your sword-brother goes about heavily. Give me a word to lighten his trouble."

Olvir gazed into the pleading face of the queen's brother, and seemed about to speak. But then his look hardened, and he stepped aboard the waiting boat, cold and haughty.

"I have no word to send the Count of the Breton Mark," he said. "Let him come and ask for himself. Thrust off, men."

Gerold mounted and rode off to Casseneuil, greatly disappointed that his appeal had failed. Yet his heart was far lighter than when he came, for, like Amalwin, he was convinced that the subtle insinuations of Duke Lupus had no foundation in truth. His greatest desire was to tell all to Roland; but when he reached Casseneuil he found that the count had just left by boat for Bordeaux, in company with Lupus. So he had to content himself with telling his convictions to his sister.

All was confusion at the villa. The king had already taken leave of wife and children, and was riding off, with half the court in his train, Rothada and Fastrada among the others. Gerold could have wished to join the gay company; but he had to ride in hot haste to overtake his command,--the contingent of wild mountaineers sent by the haughty but weak Tassilo, Duke of Bavaria.

Like a swarm of giant locusts, the Frankish host had risen from about Casseneuil and passed over the Garonne. Before midday the rearguard had left the valley, and the entire host was sweeping across Vascon Land toward the Pyrenees.

The march over the thorny sand-plains of the Landes and down the valley of the Adour was so directed as to intersect the old Roman way which ran from Bordeaux across the mountains to Astorga, in the little kingdom of Alfonzo the Goth. Profiting by this useful relic of the one-time world-rulers, the thousands of Northern buskins trod the ancient road with quickened step, and rapidly drew near the outlying spurs of the Pyrenees.

The last halt made before the attempt to cross the barrier was in the valley of the Little Nive, where, after the cork forests and sterile marshes of the Landes, the intense verdure appeared like a carpet of green velvet flung over upland and meadow.

Horse and foot alike made the most of their rest in the pleasant dale, for the morning promised a march that would try the strength of the sturdiest. Many gazed upon the wild rampart, the shadow of whose peaks fell early across their camp, with thoughts which boded greater misfortune than mere journey toil, and around the fires that night the old tale was told, how, in days gone by, the host of King Dagobert the Merwing was beset in this very pass by the fierce mountain Vascons, and routed with great slaughter.

But when the bluff-spoken Hardrat ventured to remind Karl of his predecessor's disaster, the king passed off the omen with a laugh, and, in turn, reminded the Thuringian how Roland had come fresh from Lupus, bearing heartiest assurances of the duke's service and friendship. Anselm, the astute judge, noted the furtive look which passed between Fastrada and Hardrat at this; but the others gathered no more from the incident than the knowledge of the king's confidence. They spread the story throughout the camp, and by break of day the faintest-hearted in the host was strong for the advance.

In the delightful freshness of early morning, while the first sun-rays sparkled on the dewdrops, Hardrat's horn brayed the marching note. From all sides of the royal pavilion the heavy Frankish horse gathered and formed in column, five thousand strong,--ponderous steeds, backed by riders whose leathern cuirasses were banded with long iron plates. Some wore rude armlets and thigh-pieces. Slow and unwieldy in their massive strength, these horsemen were none the less formidable. So, at least, the Saracens had found, when on the plains of Touraine wave after wave of the swift-rushing Moslemah had dashed forward, to shatter on the rock-like wall of the Franks.

The king, mounted upon a powerful white stallion and backed by the brightly clad retinue, surveyed the horsemen with his clear gaze, and nodded to their waiting commander. At once Count Hardrat spurred to the front of the riders, and the long column, breaking into a trot, thundered away up the valley. As the rearmost troop passed the pavilion, the king turned to Count Worad with a half-frown.

"Where are the Danes?" he demanded. "You had word to bid them be at hand."

The young man's delicate face paled, but he answered steadily: "Count Gerold bore the command, your Majesty, when he rode to join his Bavarians."

"And I had need of my scribe, sire," explained Fulrad.

"But the Danes? We wait."

"They come, lord king," said Liutrad; and, as he spoke, the viking band, half a thousand strong, wheeled into view around a coppice, to the accompaniment of merrily clinking steel and the flashing of sunlight on polished war-gear. Their appearance was met by shouts of admiration from the Frankish lords; but, without an answering cry, they swung into the dusty road and formed into column, grim and silent. Then Olvir, all steel and gold from head to thigh, rode forward on Zora, and raised his burnished shield in salute.

"Greeting, my Dane hawk," said Karl. "You come busked as for battle."

"We think it time for war-gear, lord king," replied Olvir; and he glanced from the group of silken-vestured officials to the heights of the Pyrenees.

Karl nodded approvingly. "It is well. Our safety is now in your keeping. Hereafter, the Austrasians follow us."

Olvir flushed, and his eyes sparkled. He saluted again with upraised shield, and answered earnestly: "By my sword, lord king, you shall not rue your choice of shieldburg!"

"That I can well believe. I have not forgotten how your fierce sea-wolves bend to my little maid."

"She holds them with a fetter strong as the bond of the Fenris-wolf," replied Olvir, and he looked across to where Rothada, in her mule-litter, was assuring herself as to the comfort of Fastrada's tiring-woman and of her own maid, both of whom were perched upon a heap of baggage in a rude cart.

Two gaudily attired pages were fluttering about the little princess, eager to render her service. Olvir smiled, then set his jaw sternly. A second mule-litter had appeared from behind the cart, and its occupant was gazing at him with a strange look of shame and aversion, and yet of entreaty. Though love lay dead in Olvir's heart, the Thuringian's look moved him deeply. Already his eyes were softening, when their side-glance caught the moody gaze of Roland. He stared back at the count, and drew himself up with a haughty smile. As he turned again to Fastrada, he found her glaring at him with all the hatred that had distorted her face in the garden. She had mistaken his scornful movement as meant for herself.

The swift exchange of glances passed in the few moments that Karl was speaking to Abbot Fulrad. Before Olvir had time for second thought, the king turned back to him, smiling: "Now, my Dane hawk, Abbot Fulrad takes the child into the midst of your warriors. We lend her to them in place of yourself. For a while you will ride at my side."

"You honor both leader and men, lord king," replied Olvir; and he wheeled Zora to the side of the white stallion.

Instantly Roland lifted the royal standard, and the silver trumpet of Eggihard the High Steward sounded the advance. Into the road, behind Karl and the Northman, flocked the throng of priests and officials, with no small degree of bustle and confusion. But the noise of their starting was soon drowned in the roars of delight with which the vikings greeted their little vala. The king looked down at his road-mate, and nodded approvingly.

"That is a welcome shout," he said. "I have not done ill to choose your heathen wolves."

"Otkar would have named them trustworthy in that they are heathen."

"And what would he have said of Kasim, your Saracen kinsman?" rejoined Karl. "Is not he, too, a pagan? Yet how of the arrow you gave me? I have cleared the mystery. It is a Saracen shaft."

"May Hel grip the poisoner!" muttered Olvir, fiercely. But he restrained his anger, and continued in a calm tone, "Let my lord king say what is in his mind."

"You are keen, lad! This, then--you have just cause for anger against your younger kinsman. Yet I have need of him. He is ruler of Pampeluna, which, I am told, is the strongest burg in the land of the Navarrese; and more,--he shares, in a measure, the influence of his wife's father over the Count of Saragossa."

Olvir glanced up at the expectant face of the king.

"Your Majesty would have me forgo my vengeance," he said.

"For a time, at least. Such a man is but a sprung stave to lean upon; but, if it be to his own gain, he may give good service. Until Barnard, my uncle, joins us at Saragossa with the second host, much hangs on the friendliness of this poisoner."

"Let the dog go to Hel, Loki's daughter, his own way; only, give me the forefront of battle!" cried Olvir, his eyes bright and nostrils quivering.

The king smiled in approval.

"Saint Michael!" he exclaimed; "I long to see you in sword-play, kin of Otkar! The fosterling lacks nothing of the hero's fire, yet none could differ more in body. You must favor your mother's kin; your hair alone is of the North. _Heu_! I remember your father, as of yesterday,--a grand warrior, leaping upon us through the alders. Though bigger, he was much such a man as Roland."

"Roland!" echoed Olvir; and involuntarily he glanced about.

Karl noticed the movement, and a question sprang to his lips: "You 're at outs with your sword-brother. Why have you wrangled? The quarrel grieves me."

"Not you alone, lord king! Yet am I a hare? He came upon me with bared sword--"

"You fought?"

"No. He was raging; but I cast down my sword."

"And he would not strike,--my sister's son! But his anger--?"

"The daughter of Rudulf and I broke troth; why, I will not tell,--let men think what they may. Roland met her. I do not know what she told him; but he came upon me like a berserk."

"No doubt the maiden was angry, and in her anger may have overstepped the truth. A word may set Roland right and heal your quarrel."

"Let him ask, then! He has broken blood-troth. He is the one to salve the hurt."

For some moments Karl regarded the young Northman's haughty face with impassive gravity. When at length he broke the silence, his gaze shifted to the jewelled Al-hatif.

"Yours is a gay sword," he observed.

"No less a keen blade," muttered Olvir.

"It shall soon test the Saracen mail. May it spur Abd-er-Rahman into the sea! Christ conquers; the heathen hosts shall flee before his warriors."

The king paused, and looked upwards into the blue sky, his face aglow. After some little time his gaze returned to Olvir.

"Listen, kin of Otkar," he said; "this is my war-scheme: Barnard, my uncle, marches around by way of Narbonne. He will leave men to hold the burgs of our allies in the northeast quarter of the old Goth realm, thus hedging in Septimania from counter-attack. At Saragossa we join hosts, cross the Ebro with our Saracen allies, and march south against the great burg called Toledo. If that burg falls before Abd-er-Rahman comes to battle for his kingdom, we strike yet farther south at Cordova, his chief burg and royal seat; while Ibn Habib, the kinsman of Kasim, crosses over from Africa to harry in the rear of the Saracen lion,--so Al Arabi and Kasim have given pledge. Now, what does my Dane hawk say? The Saracen folk cannot stand before us in battle. That was proven by my father's father. It is a fiery land; yet the war will be brief. Behind us is the support of our pagan allies and the Christian mountaineers; what can defeat us?"

"Treachery."

"True. But of that I have no fear,--even from Count Kasim. The Saracen king has hunted him like a wolf and slain his kinfolk."

"There is yet the Vascon," remarked Olvir, dryly.

"Him!" rejoined Karl. "The Merwing hound dare not yap at my cold shoe. In the early years of my kingship he gave over to me his own kinsman, Hunold of Aquitania, at the first threat. Enough of such! Now I would speak with Roland; afterwards with Abbot Fulrad."

Olvir saluted, and wheeled Zora about. The act brought him face to face with Roland, riding alone at the head of the retinue. The count met his glance with a troubled look; but Olvir passed by, and signed to Liutrad.

"Tell Lord Roland the king would speak with him," he said.

The merry young giant nodded, and, without a blink of surprise at the transference of the message, spurred forward on Gerold's last gift,--a heavy horse of Frankish breed.

Olvir reined Zora aside and waited for the retinue to pass. His intention was to fall back among his own men, as far away as possible from his one-time brother and his one-time love. But while he rode with the king, Abbot Fulrad had brought Rothada forward to rejoin her maiden companion. A glimpse of the little princess staring at him from her litter in round-eyed wonderment altered Olvir's purpose.

Regardless alike of the cold-eyed courtiers and Fastrada's hateful smile, he guided Zora in among the retinue until she paced beside Rothada's litter. He met the dubious look of Abbot Fulrad with an easy smile.

"The king would speak with you, lord priest," he said, and as the white-haired churchman urged his mule forward, Olvir bent gravely over Rothada.

"How is the little vala?" he asked.

"Very well, Lord Olvir. Is it not joyous to be on our way to the crest of those mighty fells? But I forget. They tell me I should not speak with you. Are you so very wicked, Lord Olvir?"

The Northman turned like a panther suddenly attacked, and cast at Fastrada a glance of such terrible anger that all her hate could not withstand its menace. But as she shrank from him, Olvir burst into a laugh of careless scorn.

"This is a wicked world, little cloister-dove," he said. "Yet be assured,--you can trust your heathen friends, though I cannot say as much for those who call themselves followers of the White Christ."

"I'm glad, Lord Olvir! I could hardly believe you'd harm me. Of my dear vikings I had no fear at all, though some mock at them as heathen. If only they were not! Yet they are very good to me, and I love them all."

"Even me!" suggested Olvir, and, with a boyish laugh, he tossed a small ring into the girl's lap. "You shall be my may."

"But I 've no ring to give in turn," she replied seriously.

"A lock of your hair will be as welcome."

Rothada took the dagger which he held out, and cut a thick tress from her chestnut hair.

"Braid it," said Olvir; and the girl obediently plaited the tress in a broad strand. Olvir took the gift solemnly, and, winding it twice about his neck, over the gold collar of his mail, secured the ends together with a double clasp.

"Now I'm your thrall, king's daughter; for I wear your bond," he said.

"A collar, earl, that should not chafe even the pride of a sea-king," remarked Liutrad, who had fallen back to the opposite side of Rothada's litter. Olvir smiled into his honest, ruddy face.

"Well said, lad; for it's the gift of a true heart," he replied, and he cast a piercing glance at Fastrada. But the Thuringian, though within ear-shot, gave no sign that she either saw or heard. She was surrounded by a group of favorite admirers, who crowded about her litter, enjoying at the same time her beauty and her subtle wit. In wholesome dread of Olvir's quick ear, the maiden said nothing against him; but the hostile feeling of her companions was apparent in their shrugs and glances.

To this Olvir did not pay the slightest heed. Liutrad, however, took the matter more to heart. With boys like the pages such unfriendliness might be excusable. But Worad, notwithstanding his girlish face, was a learned count and skilled warrior, and during Olvir's Rhine journey he had not only enjoyed the hospitality of the viking camp, but had pledged friendship with Gerold and Liutrad. Of all which Liutrad grumbled to his earl across the litter, until Rothada and Olvir joined in laughing him into his usual good-humor.

The road had now plunged into a vast forest of beech and oak, and through the vistas Olvir pointed out to his companions the glittering white crest of Mount Altobiscar, toward which they were steadily ascending.

Gradually the wooded spurs of the great barrier closed in. The way became narrow and steep. Lofty cliffs, whose crannies were green with hardy box, towered above the invaders. Oaks and beeches were giving place to firs. High in the genial, sunny air other peaks than Altobiscar thrust up their jagged snow-crests.

Nearer and nearer the mountain towered above the narrow road, until the vanguard of the invaders could look directly up at the glittering summit, five thousand feet above them. Slowly horsemen and footmen wound through the wild gorges of Ibaneta, whose savage grandeur over-awed all others than the Bavarians and the mountain-bred warriors of the North. For them the dizzy cliffs and crags served only to stir pleasant memories of their own rugged lands. But the Frankish dwellers of forest and plain gazed about them half fearfully, well assured that such gloomy cliffs and jagged heights must be the abode of malevolent kobolds and scrats, if not of dragons.

No trace of man other than the old Roman way was to be seen in the pass. Nature here ruled alone in one of her wildest moods. From their eyries on the crags of Altobiscar, eagles swooped down to view the invaders, and their screams echoed weirdly through the gorge, above the dull tramp of hoofs and buskins and the clink and ring of war-gear.

All Rothada's delight had now given place to dread of the echoes and the savage scenery, and she would have wished herself back on the peaceful Garonne, had not Olvir set about diverting her attention by jests and droll tales.

So, without sign of opposition or danger, the host poured down through the ominous gorge, to enjoy the well-earned rest in the dewy valley below.