For The White Christ Part 20

"No guest," replied Olvir.

"What tidings?"

"Word from the king--and more."

"_Heu!_" growled Rudulf; "I thought as much,--a court-man; and yet such mail-- You ride a shapely mare."

"There are worse."

"She is lean. You rode hard."

"Twelve days since, she drank from the Garonne at Ca.s.seneuil."

The Thuringian s.h.i.+fted on his bench and peered at Olvir with narrowing eyes.

"Liars are abhorred alike by Odin and the White Christ."

"Here is the king's message, sealed with his great seal. Doubtless Fulrad, Keeper of the Seal, noted the date of sending," replied Olvir, coolly; and he held out the folded parchment.

Rudulf took the message in a hairy fist, and stared at the barbarous Latin of the address.

"Open and read," said Olvir.

"How--am I a monk? That shall wait a while. You spoke of other tidings."

"I come as your daughter's wooer."

Rudulf laughed derisively, and surveyed Olvir from helmet to buskin.

"A gay bird of the South," he sneered. "He had best wing it home again.

The North is cold for such."

"The gerfalcon soars over the ice-fells," rejoined Olvir.

"Gerfalcon--gerfalcon!" muttered Rudulf, in an altered tone. "It may be! But hearken, my gay king's rider. Falcon or sparrow, you had best be winging southward. I have broken the backs of two Saxon and three Sorb champions, and my strength is still with me. Fastrada, my daughter, goes to no man who cannot best me at my chosen game."

Olvir silently laid aside his helmet and unclasped his mail-serk.

"I am ready," he said.

But Rudulf shook his grisly head.

"It were a pity to mar so shapely a child," he muttered. "Do not be rash, boy. I have never but once been thrown, and that by the greatest of heroes, Otkar the Dane."

At that name, the terrible weariness which deadened Olvir's nerves fell away, and left him a-tingle with life and power.

"Come, then, braggart," he jeered. "Now shall you bite the dust the second time."

Stung by the taunt, Rudulf dropped his wolf-skin, and advanced, half crouching, upon the audacious challenger. His eyes were narrowed to a line, and his grey hair stood up like the bristles of a wolf. His gaunt figure, creeping forward in the dying firelight, was a sight to appall any but the stoutest hearted.

Olvir, though he held himself with seeming carelessness, waited the attack with every faculty alert. He had no doubt that Rudulf's boasts were based in truth, and yet, though the strain of his long ride was against him, he did not shrink. He was resolved to win the old hero's daughter, or die in the attempt.

Zora thrust her head past her master's shoulder. Without averting his gaze from the Thuringian, he uttered a word of command that sent the mare about to the door of the apartment. As she wheeled, Olvir feigned to glance away, and on the instant Rudulf made his leap. Olvir dropped forward, and the leaper stumbled and fell headlong over him into the rushes. Both men were up again, Olvir only a moment quicker than his grey opponent.

"_Heu_! a child's trick," growled Rudulf, and he advanced again. This time Olvir sprang to meet him, and in a moment the two were locked fast in each other's arms. Olvir at once realized that the old count was far stronger than himself and very quick. But he had not been trained in all kingly games by Otkar Jotuntop, that he should fail at such a time.

Up and down the room the wrestlers trampled and reeled in desperate struggle, overturning benches and tables, and scattering the firebrands among the green rushes. Acrid smoke rose from the floor to choke the wrestlers; but they staggered to and fro across the room, heedless of all else than their furious strife. Time and again the Grey Wolf lifted Olvir sheer off his feet, yet always the Northman regained his foothold.

The Thuringian could neither smother him in his terrible hug nor loosen the younger man's grip. His every effort to s.h.i.+ft the hold, so as to break Olvir's back, was foiled by movements yet more adroit. The crafty old wrestler had met one whose skill outmatched his own at every turn.

At last age began to tell against the Thuringian. His gasps told of failing breath. For a little he strained his utmost, his teeth gnas.h.i.+ng like a wolf's. Still Olvir held fast, biding his time. Suddenly the Grey Wolf's grip relaxed. In a twinkling, Olvir had s.h.i.+fted his hold.

One arm closed about the count's hairy throat. The man was at his mercy.

"Enough! do not--throttle--" gasped Rudulf.

"The back-breaker is not yet upon his back," rejoined Olvir. But he eased his grip, and Rudulf answered him quickly: "No need to thrust the falling tree. You have won."

"Well said!" cried Olvir, and he supported the exhausted count to a bench. Then he flung wide open the great door, and gathered together the scattered brands of the fire. As he put on again his bright mail and helmet, and sat down in the crossing rays of flame and sunlight, he saw old Rudulf watching him with a bewildered stare, muttering, "Have I met my match in a bairn?"

"I was taught the game by him whom you Rhinefolk call the Dane,--Otkar Jotuntop," said Olvir, quietly.

"Otkar--Otkar! Ha! I thought the mail-- And Otkar himself trained you?"

"I was his fosterling and blood-kin."

"Was?"

"He has gone hence."

"_Heu_! the North has lost a king of heroes. But he has left a bold foster-son. I ought to have known by your eye, if not by the mail; but the gold and the pretty stones threw me from the slot. Your bairn's sword--"

"Bairn's! With this blade I took vengeance on my father's slayer, and many another Dane has felt its point," rejoined Olvir, as he handed the sword to Rudulf.

The Thuringian examined closely the beautiful recurved blade, and shook his head. "This may be good steel. I have never seen its like. Yet the weapon lacks weight."

"I have known worse blades," answered Olvir; and, drawing a ring from his finger, he tossed it into the air. As it fell, he thrust out and caught the little circlet on Al-hatif's point.

Old Rudulf's green eyes widened in a look of approval.

"By Thor and the White Christ!" he swore; "no maiden need fear to wed so deft a sword-wielder. Say the word, hero. Whenever you wish, I ride with you to old Sturm, and make my mark on the betrothal scroll."

"Hold a little," interrupted a softly sibilant voice, so like Fastrada's that Olvir turned about with a throbbing heart. He saw the tall figure of a woman, wrapped about in a cloak of grey wool. The woman's face was hidden in the depths of the hood, but back in the shadow he saw, or rather felt, a pair of cold eyes fixed upon him. He had no doubt that this was the woman of the weasels,--the mother of his chosen bride. As he remembered her repute for witchery, he felt what he had never known since early childhood,--a thrill of real fear. But the spell pa.s.sed in a moment, and he watched the Wend woman's stealthy approach, calm alike in seeming and in reality.

"What would the dame ask?" he inquired gravely.

The woman stared at him from the depths of her hood, and made no reply.

Olvir stared back at her until at last he grew weary of the delay.