"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?"
"_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 passed 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.
"Let the mother of Fastrada speak," he said in a tone more of command than entreaty.
"Do you not fear the fiends, son of Thorbiorn?" demanded the woman, in a hollow voice.
Olvir's lip curled. "The grave-mound was my dwelling, and I have ever drunk to Thor."