It gave her no conscious
impression of the vastness of the hosts, but it brought a vague sense of
wandering, of helplessness, that caused her fluttering wits to turn back,
startled, and set to watching the pictures that showed through rifts in the
swirling dust clouds,--an Englishman falling from his saddle, his fingers
widespread upon the air; a Danish bowman wiping blood from his eyes that he
might see to aim his shaft; yonder, the figure of Leofwinesson himself,
leaping forward with swift-stabbing sword. But whether they were English who
fell or Danes who stood, she had no thought, no care; they meant no more to
her than rune figures carved in wood.
The sun rose higher in the heavens, till it stood directly overhead, and sweat
mingled with the blood. Suddenly, the girl awoke to find that Rothgar's
singing had changed into cursing.
"Heed him not, King," he was bellowing over his horse's head. "We have no need
of trick-bought victories. We bear the highest shields; warrior-skill will
win. We need not his snake-wisdom."
To the other side of the young leader, Thorkel the Tall was spurring, bending
urgently from his saddle. "Craft, my King! Craft! It will take till nightfall
to decide the game. Why spill so much good blood? Listen to Edric the
Gainer--"
Canute's furious curse cut him short. "To the Troll with your craft! Swords
shall make us, or swords shall mar us.
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