CHAPTER XXII

Blithe then grew the breaker of rings. BEOWULF.

Early two months had passed since from the loftiest tower of Pampeluna's citadel Olvir had watched the Frankish warriors wind away across the green plateau, on their southward march to the Ebro. In all the dreary weeks of waiting no tidings had come back from the invading host,--not a word to tell whether Karl was battling for the old Goth realm on the Ebro's banks, or, finding Abd-er-Rahman too cautious to encounter him near Saragossa, had ventured on south to Toledo or to Cordova itself, in search of the fierce but wily old Emir of Andalus.

Whatever might be the truth as to the movements of the host, there could be no doubt that trickery was rife in its rear; for Karl most certainly had sent more than one messenger northward, and death or capture at the hands of the king's Saracen allies could alone account for their failure to bring tidings to Pampeluna.

At the end of the first month Floki was for taking a score or so of men, and going in search of the Franks; but Olvir told him that he would not risk one man, much less a score, to fall into the traitors' snare. Instead, he set about strengthening the defences of the citadel, and levied on the townfolk for food, until the storerooms were filled to overflowing. The old Roman cisterns already held enough water to last out a six months' siege.

That he could hold the citadel against all comers Olvir had no doubt; but his warriors were far too few for him to man the burg walls. He had to content himself with a watch at each gate of half a hundred warriors, who, he planned, could hold their posts secure against any chance band of the enemy, or, in the event of an attack in force, could check the first assault, and so save the citadel from the possibility of a surprise.

In his vigilant watch over the safety of the citadel, the young Northman found little time to spend in the society of Rothada's miniature court. Yet it was not seldom that he saw the little princess; for she often sought him out with the complaint that Fastrada was closeted with the wizened old Magian leech whom the king her father had left to care for her, and that she was weary of playing with the pages and the tiring-women.

On the morning of the day which opened the ninth week of waiting, Olvir came riding up to the great door of the citadel, after his round of the burg gates, and as he dismounted in the shadow of the archway, smilingly unlashed a roll of cloth from his saddle. Then he beckoned to one of the door wardens and said briefly: "The mare frets with so much stall-standing. Take her for a run across the Arga."

Overjoyed at the chance, the man sprang into the saddle, and Zora started down the steep path, picking her steps daintily but with a quickness that showed her impatience at the restraints on coursing within the burg.

A little later Olvir climbed out upon the roof of the citadel's main tower, the roll of cloth still in his hand. For a while he swept with his glance the neighboring heights and the broad harvest fields on the plain below the burg. All lay calm and peaceful in the hot sunshine, and his gaze turned with his thoughts to the cloth in his hand. Half smiling, he peered within its folds, and began to pace slowly to and fro across the narrow space of the roof.

"By the hair of Sif!" he chuckled, "I 'll wager it's a gift to delight any maid!"

But his pleasant musing was cut short by the sound of a sibilant voice in the upper room of an adjoining tower.

"Loki!" he muttered. "Can I never get beyond earshot of that woman?"

Frowning, he moved over to the farther battlement, and turned his face away toward the barren fells which lay between him and the mysterious South. But though he sought to fix his thoughts on the host which had vanished behind those desolate hills and crags, he could not shut out the sound of that sibilant voice or the shrill, cackling answers of Kosru, the old Magian leech.

"Of a surety, man,"--Fastrada was speaking,--"you are a warlock of note. Strange you have already wandered over Rhine! You must come again, and farther,--to my Thuringian home. My mother will give you fair welcome. Though a woman of the roving Wends, she is skilled in herbs and magic spells. At her bidding the storm-wind rises. She rules the forest sprites,--kobolds and nixies,--even the fiend-gods of the Saxons."

"I do not claim to rule the storm-wind, maiden." The leech's voice was raised in shrill protest.

"Yet you do not lack knowledge of powerful spells," came back the quick response. "Tell me again of that which saved you from the wolves in Fulda Wood."

"It was a little thing, maiden, for a geber whose learning has saved the lives of princes. Yet the most learned might well have perished in the fangs of those fierce children of Ahriman. Only by chance did I have the magic drug to throw behind me and stay them, while the Jew and I fled on to the Christian monastery."

"But the drug? You did not tell me--"

"A foul-smelling resin from Arabia. Others than I have tested its charm over the grey demons of the forest. It will stay the wolf-pack on a hot trail, or draw them from so far as they may scent its odor. But as to black magic--" The voice of the leech sank to a whisper.

For a time the words of neither speaker were audible. Then Fastrada's voice vibrated on the air, sharp and distinct: "How! Even the Magian chief? Listen, leech; stand my friend, and I pledge you sure gain in the king's court. My word carries favor among his lords."

"A bargain, maiden! Help me to a fair standing in the court of Karolah, and I give you a talisman of greatest potency,--a ring set with the magic stone whose hues shift and change even as the tints of your eyes."

"Its powers--?"

"To the weak it brings destruction; to the strong, honors--"

"And love?"

"Love, if already he does not love another."

"Another? Then I am safe! He will come back--he will come back to me! Give me the spell-stone, leech--now! A day may lose all! I swear to befriend you!"

"I do not doubt, maiden. But the ring is in your own land,--at Metz on the Moselle, pledged to a Jew trader, Yusuf Ben Israel. It is a heavy debt,--four ounces of gold."

"I will pay it gladly for such a ring. Here is what will win the spell-stone from the greedy Jew. _Ai!_ you may well eye the bright clasp. It was my first gift from _him_!"

Olvir sprang up from his seat on the battlement as though stung.

"Loki!" he muttered. "The witch's daughter thinks to creep back into my heart with the aid of spells and evil craft. I have wasted my pity. Sooner would I cherish an adder than that fair-faced werwolf."

He turned to descend out of ear-shot of the sibilant voice, only to pause as it pierced the air in a hissing whisper: "Hist, leech! Some one mounts the other tower. Let us go down."

"The trolls flee before the light-elf!" murmured Olvir, and he stepped forward, smiling, as Rothada sprang gaily into view up the last steps of the narrow stairway. In a moment she was beside him, her face raised for his greeting. But when, instead of kissing her forehead, Olvir bent to her lips, she drew back with a startled look, and a faint blush crept into her cheeks.

Never had the little maiden appeared so winsome as when she stood thus, half shrinking before him, overcome by a shyness whose source was a mystery to her child mind. In her play with the pages, she had dressed herself in a Saracen woman's street costume, several of which had been found in the citadel. Swathed from head to foot in the uncouth gown, with her face framed about by the brown folds, she appeared for all the world like a spring blossom just bursting from its dull husk. Olvir was quick to see the resemblance.

"By Ostara, little maid!" he exclaimed; "had I come upon you so out in the woodland, I 'd have fancied you the elf of the violets. Surely no flower-elf could be more winsome!"

"Oh, Olvir!" protested the girl, and her blushing face bent yet lower. Her bosom rose and fell quickly, and she glanced shyly at the smiling Northman. But then, overcome by wonder at her strange emotion, she looked up at him in bewilderment.

"What is this, dear hero?" she murmured. "When you speak kindly to me, my very heart sings with gladness, and yet I fear--I am ashamed."

The eyes of the young sea-king sparkled like black gems, and he bent to kiss her again. But as his gaze met hers, he paused, checked by her trustful innocence, and a quick flush reddened his dark cheeks.

"I am not worthy!" he said, half aloud. "Who am I to open life's mysteries to this little dove?"

"What is it, Olvir?" persisted Rothada. "Will you not speak out and answer me? Why do I not feel so when Dame Hildegarde and my father, who are no less kind--"

"Why--ah, why?" repeated Olvir. "But wait, child. Do not fret your little heart over such mysteries. Wait and ask your questions of the gracious queen who has shown to you a mother's love. We 'll be merry and care-free while we may. See; here is a gift I 've brought you from the booths of the Saracen tradefolk."

Flinging open the roll in his hand, Olvir drew out from its wrappings a silken bodice, worthy even a king's daughter. Strange as was its shape, Rothada forgot all her shyness and bewilderment as she gazed at its beautiful embroidery, wrought in pearls and gold-thread. Never before had she set eyes on such graceful designs. She needed little urging to fling aside her brown cloak and slip on the gay blue kirtle.

"Saint Petronella bless you, dear hero!" she cried in her delight. "Truly, it is a king's gift! I feel as beautiful as the bower-maidens. If you like, you can kiss me again--on the mouth."

"Like!" echoed Olvir, almost in a whisper, and he thrust out a gentle finger to lift her chin. Yet before he could stoop to meet her pouting lips, she sprang aside and pointed out over the battlements.

"The horses! the beautiful horses!" she shrieked. "Oh, look, Olvir,--thousands of horsemen racing!"