For The White Christ Part 31

"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-G.o.ds 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 hors.e.m.e.n racing!"

CHAPTER XXIII

Feeder of foul deeds, Fey do I deem thee.

LAY OF SIGURD.

Even as the Northman spun about at the cry of the little maiden, his hands were loosening the horn at his belt. His glance rested but a moment on the torrent of Saracen spearmen which was pouring out across the green plain from behind the nearest hill.

"By Thor! three thousand and more, if a man!" he cried, and with the words the horn was raised to his lips. As its warning note blared down to the very donjons of the citadel, he bent out over the battlements, and stared across the roofs of the Saracen quarter to the open s.p.a.ce about the Ebro Gate. Even as he looked, a shrill battle-cry rent the air,--"_Allah acbar! Allah acbar!_"--and in a twinkling all the s.p.a.ce about the distant gateway was swarming with armed Saracens, the turbaned warriors surging in a wild mob into the great arch of the gateway.

Olvir's nostrils dilated. "Thor!" he muttered. "The Crane will do well to close the gate with those stinging gnats behind him."

"Oh, Olvir! are they fighting--all those fierce warriors?--and Floki has so few! He will be slain! Hasten--"

"He must fare for himself, king's daughter. But never fear! The hors.e.m.e.n have yet a bow-shot to race, and--_heya!_ look; there's proof the gate is barred."

Great as was the distance, the dry, smokeless air was so clear that Rothada could see with startling distinctness the battle-ebb of the attacking mob as they fell back before the counter-charge of the vikings in the archway. Suddenly the little band rushed into view, their weapons flas.h.i.+ng in fierce strokes. The deep viking battle-shout rolled out above the shrill yells of the Moslems, and the giant warriors, forming swiftly in a wedge, hurled themselves like a huge barbed spear-point straight through the thick of the mob.