Bearing his shield, it shot out
over the body of his King. The falling brand bit this screen also, and lopped
off the hand that held it, but the respite was sufficient. In a flash Canute
was on his feet, both hands grasping the hilt of his high-flung sword.
It was a mighty blow, but it fell harmless. A sudden surge in the tide of
struggling bodies swept the Ironside out of reach and engulfed him in a
whirlpool of Danish swords. He laid about him like mad, and was like to have
cleared a passage back, when a second wave carried him completely from view.
Canute cursed at the anxious faces that surrounded him. "What means it, this
swaying? What is herding them? Who are flying? Fools! Can you not tell a
retreat? Bid the horns blow--"
"The English!" bellowed Rothgar. "The English are flying--Edmund's head!
Yonder!"
Frode's daughter had Viking blood, but she hid her face with a cry. There it
was, high upon a spear-point, dripping, ghastly. Could the sun shine upon such
a thing?
Ay, and men could rejoice at it. Above the panic scream she heard cries of
savage joy. But Canute sat motionless, on the new horse they had brought him.
"It is not possible," he muttered. "The flight began while he still faced me.
It was their crowding that saved him."
To stare before him, Rothgar let the blood pour unheeded from his wounded arm.
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