Dropping her sword, she caught at her wrist.
"How did it happen? I thought a pin had pricked me!"
Roaring with laughter, he caught her under the arms and tossed her in the air.
"A pin!" he shouted. "A pin! That is Frode himself! A beard on your chin, and
you also will be a feeder of wolves! For that you shall have a share in the
battle. I swear it by the hilt of the Hanger!"
For the moment, the girl forgot her wound and hung limp in the great hands.
"The battle?" she gasped. "I--I fight?"
Roaring afresh, the Jotun gave her another jubilant toss. "You blustering
field-mouse! Showing your teeth already? Who knows? If you meet a blind
Englishman without a weapon, you may even kill him. Here," he tumbled her
roughly to the ground, "tie up your pin-scratch and then come after me. I must
go up yonder to Canute, under the oak tree. If you are too tired to wield the
sword, tie your hand to the hilt, and no man shall have a better will to do
harm to the English. Frode the Dane will experience great pride when he looks
out of Valhalla to-day." Putting out one great hand, he patted her soft curls
as though she were some shaggy dog, then hurried out to his chief.
It was a respite to be alone, and she accepted it gratefully, sinking among
the cushions with closed eyes and a hand on her throbbing wrist. But it was
only a respite; she never for a moment lost sight of that.
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