Sigdri'fuma'l.
No holiday finery tricked out the Danish host where it squatted along the
Severn Valley that dreary October day; neither festal tables nor dimpling
women nor even the gay striped tents. Of all the multitude of flags but one
banner pricked the murky air,--the Raven standard that marked the headquarters
of the King; and its sodden folds distinguished nothing more regal than a
shepherd's wattled cote. Scattered clumps of trees offered the weary men their
only protection against the drizzling rain; and the sole suggestions of
comfort were the sickly fires that patient endeavor had managed to coax into
life in these retreats. Some, whom exhaustion had robbed even of a
fire-tender's ambition, had dropped down on the very spot where they had
slipped from their saddles, and slept, cloak-wrapped, in the wet. And the
circles about the fires were not much noisier.
Rothgar's face gathered gravity as he gained the crest of the last hill that
lay between him and the straggling encampment.
"The rain appears to fall as coldly on their cheer as on their fires," he
commented. "They hug the earth like the ducks on Videy Island."
"And look about as much like warriors who have got a victory," the child of
Frode added wonderingly.
The Jotun threw her a glance, where she rode at his side. "Hear words of fate!
I think that is the first time you have spoken in three days.
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